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LETTERS 



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TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. 



BOSTON : 

WELLS AND LILLY, COUkT-ETRlET. 
1820. 



THC 

LETTERS 



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CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED 



FROM THE 



WALPOLE AND MASON COLLECTIONS, 



VOL. I. 



MDCCCXX. 



DANIEL LLOY'H 
AUG. 1.S64 



Most of the numerous editions of the Poeti- 
cal Works x)f Gray have his Biography pre- 
fixed, from the materials furnished by Mr. 
Mason's Memoirs. The present edition of his 
correspondence professes to give his " Let- 
ters" only. The Orford collection has fur- 
nished fourteen, which have been inserted 
in their proper places ; but the notes, ex- 
cepting a few marked B. (Lord Orford's edi- 
txjr, Mr. Berry) are taken from Mr. Mason's 
edition. 

The propriety of retaining the few Let- 
ters of Gray's early friend, Mr. West, will 
be readily admitted by the reader. 



LETTERS 



THOMAS GRAY. 



I. 

FROM MR. WEST* TO MR. GRAY. 

You use me very cruelly : you have sent 
me but one letter since I have been at Ox- 
ford, and that too agreeable not to make me 
sensible how great my loss is in not having 
more. Next to seeing you is the pleasure 
of seeing your hand-writing ; next to hear- 
ing you is the pleasure of hearing from you. 

* Mr. West's father was lord chancellor of Ireland. His grand- 
father, by the mother, the famous bishop Burnet. He removed 
from Eton to Oxford, about the same time that Mr, Gray left that 
place for Cambridge. In April, 1738, he left Christ Church for 
the Inner Temple, and Mr. Gray removed from Peterhouse to 
town the latter end of that year ; intending also to apply himself 
to the study of the law in the same society. 



Really and sincerely I wonder at you, that 
you thought it not worth while to answer 
my last letter. I hope this will have better 
success in behalf of your quondom school- 
fellow ; in behalf of one who has walked 
hand in hand with you, like the two chil- 
dren in the wood, 

Through many a flowery path and shelly grot, 
Where learning luU'd us in her private maze. 

The very thought, you see, tips my pen 
with poetry, and brings Eton to my view. 
Consider me very seriously here in a strange 
country, inhabited by things that call them- 
selves doctors and masters of arts ; a coun- 
try flowing with syllogisms and ale, where 
Horace and Virgil are equally unknown ; 
consider me, I say, in this melancholy light, 
and then think if something be not due to 

Yours. 

Christ Church, Nov. 14, 1735. 

P. S. I desire you will send me soon, 
and truly and possitively, a History of your 
own time.* 

* Alluding to his g;randfatber*s history. 



GRAY S LETTERS. 7 

II. 

TO MR. WEST> 

Permit me again to write to you, though I 
have so long neglected my duty, and forgive 
my brevity, when I tell you, it is occasioned 
wholly by the hurry I am in to get to a 
place where I expect to meet with no other 
pleasure than the sight of you ; for I am 
preparing for London in a few days at fur- 
thest. I do not wonder in the least at your 
frequent blaming my indolence, it ought 
rather to be called ingratitude, and I am 
obliged to your goodness for softening so 
harsh an appellation. When we meet, it 
will, however, be my greatest of pleasures 
to know what you do, what you read, and 
how j^ou spend your time, &€. &c. and to tell 
what I do not read, and how I do not, &c. for 
almost all the employment of my hours may 
be best explained by negatives ; take my word 
and experience upon it, doing nothing is a 
most amusing business ; and yet neither some- 
thing nor nothing gives me any pleasure. 
When you have seen one of my days, you 
have seen a whole year of my life ; they go 
round and round like the blind horse in the 
mill, only he has the satisfaction of fancying 



8 GRAY S LETTERS. 

he makes a progress, and gets some ground ; 
my eyes are open enough to see the same 
dull prospect, and to know that having made 
four-and-twenty steps more, I shall be just 
where I was : I may, better than most peo- 
ple, say my life is but a span, were 1 not 
afraid lest you should not believe that a per- 
son so short lived could write even so long 
a letter as this ; in short, I believe I must 
not send you the history of m^^ own time, 
till 1 can send you that also of the Refor- 
mation.* However, as the most undeserv- 
ing people in the world must sure have the 
vanity to wish somebody had a regard for 
them, so I need not wonder at my own, in 
being jdeased that you care about me. You 
need not doubt, therefore, of having a first 
row in the front box of my little heart, and 
I believe you are not in danger of being 
crowded there ; it is asking you to an old 
play, indeed, but you will be candid enough 
to excuse the whole piece for the sake of a 
i^ew tolerable lines. 

For this little while past I have been 
playing with Statins ; we yesterday had a 
game at quoits together : you will easily for- 

* CaiT)'ing on the a,llusJon to the other history wiitten by Mi'. 
West's granilfather. 



gray's letters. 9 

giFe me for having broke his head, as you 
have a little pique to him. I send you my 
translation, which I did not engage in be- 
cause I liked that part of the poem, nor do 
I now send it to you because I think it de- 
serves it, but merely to show you how I 
mispend my days. 

Third in the labours of the Disc came on, 
With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon, &c.* 
Cambridge, May 8, 1736. 



Til. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

1 AGREE with you that you have broke Sta- 
tius's head, but it is in like manner as Ap- 
pollo broke Hyacinth's, you have foiled him 
infinitely at his own weapon : I must insist 
on seeing the rest of your translation, and 
then I will examine it entire, and compare 

• See Poem.?. As all the fragments and posthumous pieces of 
poetry have been included in the later editicms of Mr. Gray's 
poetical works, it has not been always thought necessaiy to give 
them at large in this edition of his " Letters ••" an exception to 
this rule has however been made in favour of Mr. West's poems ; 
and tiiepoe^nata of Mr. Gray sometimes could not be omitted with- 
out violence to his con"espondencc. 



10 gray's letters. 

it with the Latin, and be very wise and se- 
vere, and put on an inflexible face, such as 
becomes the character of a true son of Aris- 
tarchus, of hypercritical memory. In the 
mean while, 

And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold, 

is exactly Statius — Summos auro mansueve- 
rat ungues. I never kn-ew before that the 
golden fangs on hammercloths were so old a 
fashion. Your Hymeneal I was told was 
the best in the Cambridge collection before 
I saw it, and, indeed, it is no great compli- 
ment to tell you I thought it so when I had 
seen it, but sincerely it pleased me best. 
Methinks the college bards have run into a 
strange taste on this occasion. Such soft 
unmeaning stuff about Venus and Cupid, and 
Peleus and Thetis, and Zephyrs and Dryads, 
was never read. As for my poor little Ec- 
logue, it has been condemned and beheaded 
by our Westminster judges; an exordium of 
about sixteen lines absolutely cut off, and its 
other limbs quartered in a most barbarous 
manner. I will send it you in my next as 
my true and lawful heir, in exclusion of the 
pretender, who has the impudence to appear 
under my name. 

As yet I have not looked into sir Isaac. 
Public disputations I hate; mathematics I 



gray's letters. 1| 

reverence; history, morality, and natural 
philosphy have the greatest charms in my 
eye; but who can forget poetry? they call it 
idleness, but it is surely the most enchanting 
thing in-the world, "ac dulce otium etpaene 
omni negotio pulchrius." 

I am, dear sir, yours while I am 

R. W. 

Christ Church, May 24, 1736. 



IV. 

TO MR. WEST. 

You must know that I do not take degrees, 
and, after this term, shall have nothing more 
of college impertinences to undergo, which I 
trust will be some pleasure to you, as it is a 
great one to me. I have endured lectures 
daily and hourly since I came last, supported 
by the hopes of being shortly at full liberty 
to give myself up to my friends and classical 
companions, who, poor souls! though I see 
them fallen into great contempt with most 
people here, yet I cannot help sticking to 
them, and out of a spirit of obstinacy (I 
think) love them the better for it; and, in- 
deed, what can I do else? Must I plunge into 



12 

metaphysics? AlasI I cannot see in the 
dark; nature has not furnished me with the 
optics of a cat. Must I pore upon mathe- 
tics? AlasI I cannot see in too much light; I 
am no eagle. It is very possible that two 
and two make four, but I would not give four 
farthings to demonstrate this ever so clearly; 
and if these be the profits of life, give me 
the amusements of it. The people I behold 
all around me, it seems, know all this and 
more, and yet I do not know one of them 
who inspires me with any ambition of being 
like him. Surely it was of this place, now 
Cambridge, but formerly known by the 
name of Babylon, that the prophet spoke 
when he said, "the wild beasts of the desert 
shall dwell there, and their houses shall be 
full of doleful creatures, and owls shall build 
there, and satyrs shall dance there; their 
forts and towers shall be a den forever, a joy 
of wild asses; there shall the great owl 
make her nest, and lay and hatch and gather 
under her shadow; it shall be a court of 
dragons; the screech owl also shall rest 
there, and find for herself a place of rest." 
You see here is a pretty collection of deso- 
late animals, which is verified in this town to 
a tittle, and perhaps it may also allude to 
your habitation, for you know all types may 



gray's letters. 13 

be taken by abundance of handles; however, 
I defy your owls to match mine. 

If the default of your spirits and nerves 
be nothing but the effect of the hyp, I have 
no more to say. We all must submit to that 
wayward queen; I too in no small degree 
own her sway. 

I feel her mfluence while I speak her power. 

But if it be a real distemper, pray take more 
care of your health, if not for your own at 
least for our sakes, and do not be so soon 
weary of this little world: I do not know 
what refined* friendships you may have 
contracted in the other, but pray do not be 
in a hurry to see your acquaintance above; 
among your terrestrial familiars, however, 
though I say it that should not say it, there 
positively is not one that has a greater es- 
teem for you than 

Yours most sincerly, &c. 

Peterhouse, Dec. 1736. 

• Perhaps he meant to ridicule the affected maimar of Mrs, 
Howe's letters from the dead to tjie living. 



14 gray's letters. 

V. 

-FROM MR. WEST. 

I CONGRATULATE you On jouF being about to 
leave college,* and rejoice much you carry 
no degrees with you. For [ would not have 
You dignified, and I not, for the world, you 
would have insulted me so. My eyes, such 
as they are, like yours, are neither meta- 
physical nor mathematical; I have, never- 
theless, a great respect for your connois- 
seurs that way, but am always contented to 
be their humble admirer. Your collection 
of desolate animals pleased me so much: 
but Oxford, I can assure you, has her owls 
that match yours, and the prophecy has cer- 
tainly a squint that way. Well, you are 
leaving this dismal land of bondage, and 
which way are you turning your face? Your 
friends, indeed, may be happy in yoti, but 
what will you do with your classic compan- 
ions? An imi of court is aS hotfid a place 

* I suspect that Mr West mistook his correspondent; who, in 
saying he did not take degrees, meant only to let his friend know 
that he should soon be released from lectures and disputations. It 
is certain that Mr. Gray continued at college near two years after 
the time he wrote the preceding letter. 



gray's letters. 13 

as a college, and a moot case is as dear to 
gentle dulness as a syllogism. But where- 
ever you go, let me beg you not to throw- 
poetry, "like a nauseous weed away;" che- 
rish its sweets in your bosom; they will 
serve you now and then to correct the dis- 
gusting sober follies of the common law, 
misce stultitiam consiiiis brevem, dulce est 
desipere in loco; so said Horace to Virgil, 
those two sons of Anac in poetry, and so 
say I to you, in this degenerate land of pig- 
mies, 

Mix with your grave designs a little pleasure, 
JEach day of business has its hour of leisure. 

In one of these hours I hope, dear sir, 
you will sometimes think of me, write to 
me, and know me yours, 

that is, write freely tome and openly, as Ido 
to you, and to give you a proof of it, 1 have 
sent you an elegy of Tibullus translated, 
Tibullus, you must know, is my favourite 
elegiac poet; for his language is more ele- 
gant and his thoughts more natural than 
Ovid's. Ovid excels him only in wit, of 



16 gray's letters. 

which no poet had more in my opin- 
ion. The reason I choose so melancholy a 
kind of poesie, is because my low spirits and 
constant ill health (things in me not imagina- 
ry, as you surmise, but too real, alas! and, I 
fear, constitutional) "have tuned my heart to 
elegies of woe;" and this likewise is the 
reason why I am the most irregular thing 
alive at college, for you may depend upon it 
I value my health above what they call 
discipline. As for this poor unlicked 
thing of an elegy, pray criticise it unmer- 
cifully, for I send it with that intent. In- 
deed your late translation of Statins might 
have deterred me: but I know you are not 
more able to excel others, than you are apt 
to forgive the want of excellence, especially 
when it is found in the productions of 

Your most sincere friend. 

Christ Church, Dec. 22, 1736. 



VI. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

You can never weary me with the repetition 
of any thing that makes me sensible of 
your kindness: since that has been the only 



gray's letters. 17 

idea of any social happiness that I have al- 
most ever received, and which (begging your 
pardon for thinking so differently from you 
in such cases) I would by no means have 
parted with for an exemption from all 
the uneasinesses mixed with it: But it would 
be unjust to imagine my taste was any rule 
for yours; for which reason my letters are 
shorter and less frequent than they would 
be, had 1 any materials but myself to enter- 
tain you with. Love and brown sugar must 
be a poor regale for one of your gout, and, 
alas! you know I am by trade a grocer.* 
Scandal (if I had any) is a merchandise you 
do not profess dealing in; now and then, in- 
deed, and to oblige a friend, you may per- 
haps slip a little out of your pocket, as a de- 
cayed gentlewoman would a piece of right 
mecklin, or a little quantity of run tea, but 
this only now and then, not to make a prac- 
tice of it. Monsters appertaining to this cli- 
mate you have seen already, both wet and 
dry. So you perceive within how narrow 
bounds my pen is circumscribed, and the 
whole contents of my share in our corres- 

* i.e. A man who deals only in coarse and ordinary wares: 
to these he compares the plain sincerity of his own friendship, 
undisguised by flattery ; which, had he chosen to carry on theal* 
lusion, he might have termed the trade of a Confeetiona:. 
VOL. IV. 2 



18 gray's letters. 

pondence may be reduced under the two 
heads of 1st, You, 2dly, 1; the first is, in- 
deed a subject to expatiate upon, but you 
might IrJUgh at me for talking about what I 
do not understand; tiie second is so tiny, so 
tiresome, that you shall hear no more of it 
than that it is ever 

Yours. 

Beterhouse, Dec. 23, 1736. 



VII. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

I HAVE been very ill, and am still hardly re- 
covered. Do you remember Elegy 5th, 
Book the 3d, of Tibullus, Vos tenet, &c. and 
do you remember a letter of Mr. Pope's, in 
sickness, to Mr. Steele? This melancholy 
elegy and this melancholy letter I turned into 
a more melancholy epistle of my own, dur- 
ing my sickness, in the way of imitation; 
and thi< I send to you and my friends at 
Cambridge, not to divert Ihem, for it cannot, 
but merely to show them how sincere I was 
when sick: I hope my sending it to them now 
may convince them I am no less sincere, 
though perhaps more simple, when weil?|: 



gray's letters. 19 



AD AMICOS.'^ 

Yes, Tiappy youths, on Camus' sedgy side, 

You feel each joy that friendship can divide j 

Each realm of science and of art explore, 

And witli the ancient blend the modem lore. 

Studious alone to Itam whate'er may tend 

To raise the genius or the heart to mend ; 

Now pleased along the cloister'd walk you rovC; 

And tiace the verdant mazes of the grove. 

Where social oft, and oft alone, ye choose 

To catch tie zephjT and to court the muse. 

Meantime at me (while all devoid of art 

These lines give back the image of my heart) 

At me the power that comes or soon or late, 

Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate ; 

From you remote, methinks, alone I stand 

Like some sad exile in a desert land ; 

Around no friends their lenient cai-e to join 

In mutual Avarmth. and mix their heart with min«k 

Or rtal pains, or those which fancy raise. 

For ever blot the sunshine of my days ; 

To sickness still, and still to grief a prey, 

Htalth turns from me her rosy face away. 

Just Heaven ! what sin, ere life begins to blconi, 
Devotes my head ui.timely to the tomb ? 
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life 
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murderous knife ? 
Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim, 

* Almost all TibuUus's elegy is imitated in this little piece, 
*om whence his transition to Mx: Pope's letter is very artfully 
«ontnved, and be»p«aks adepree of jud£:<.jaeut mueb beyfflad Mr 

W«pt;6 yeaK. 



20 gray's letters. 

Or madly violate my Maker's name ? 

Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, 

Or Imow a thought but all the world might know ? 

As yet, just staited from the lists of time, 

My gi'owing years have scarcely told their prime ; 

Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run, 

No pleasures tasted, and few duties done. 

♦ Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear, 
Would pluck the promise of the venial year ? 
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray, 
Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray ? 
Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules 
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools, 
Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart, 

A victim yet unworthy of thy dart : 
Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face. 
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace ; 
Then aim the sliaft, then meditate the blow, 
i' And to the dead my willing shade shall go. 
How weak is Man to Reason's judging eye ! 
Born in this moment, in the next we die ; 
Part mortal clay . and part ethereal fire, 
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire. 
In vain our plans of happiness we raise, 
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ; 
Wealth, lineager honours, conquest, or a throne, 

* Quid fraudare juvat vitem crescentibus uvis ? 
Et modo uata mala vellere poma manu ? 

So the original. The paraphrase seems to me infinitely more 
beautiful. There is a peculiar blemish in the second line, arising 
from the synonimes mala and poma 

t Here he quits TibuUus : the ten foUowiog verses hare but a 
remote reference to Mjr. Pope's letter. 



gray's letters. 21 

Are what the wise would fear to call their own. 
Health is at best a vain precarious thing, 
And fair-faced youth is ever on the wing : 
* 'Tis like the stream, beside whose watery bed 
Some blooming plant exalts his flowery bead, 
Nursed by the wave the spreading bi*anches rise. 
Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies ; 
The waves the while beneath in secret flow, 
And underline the "hollow bank below ; 
"Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, 
Bare all the roots and on their fibres prey. 
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride, 
And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide. 

But why repine ? does life desei've my sigh ? 
Few will lament ray loss whene'er I die. 
t For those the wretches I despise or hate, 
I neither envy nor regard their fate. 
For me. whene'er all-conquering Death shall spread 
His wings around my unrepining head, 
X 1 care not ; though this face be seen no more, 

* " Youth, at the very best, is but the betrayer of human life jt, 
a gentler and smoother manner than age : 'tis iike the stream that 
noui-ishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to flourish and blos- 
som to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at the root 
in secret." Papers IVorks, vol 7 page ^54, Isf. edit Warburton. 
Mr. "West, by prolonging his paraphrase of this simile, gives it ad- 
ditional beauty from that very circumstance, but he ought to have 
introduced it by Mr Pope's own thought. '" Youth is a betrayer ;" 
his couplet preceding the simile conveys too general a reflection. 

t " I am not at all uneasy at the tliought that many men, 
whom I never had any esteem for, are likely to enjoy this world 
after me." Vide ibid. 

% "The morning after my exit the sun will rise as bright as 
cTer, t)ie flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green ;" so 



22 gray's letters. 

The world will pass as dieerful as before ; 
Bright as before the day-star will appeal*. 
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear ; 
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare. 
Nor signs on earth, nor portents in the air ; 
Unknftwn and silent will depart my breath, 
Nor Nature e'er take notice of my death. 
Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days) 
"Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise. 
Loved in my life, lamented in my end, 
Their praise would crown me ss their precepts mend : 
To (hem may these fond lines my name endear, 
Not from the Poet but the Friend sincere. 
Christ Church, July 4, 1737. 



VIII. 

TO MR. WEST. 

After a month's expectation of jou, anJ a 
fortnight's despair, at Canibridge, I am come 

far Mr. "West copies his original, but instead of the following part 
of the sentence, " People will laugh as heartily and marry as fast 
as they used to do," he inserts a more solemn idea. 

Nor storms nor comets, &c." 

justly perceiving that the elegiac turn of his epistle would not 
admit so ludicrous a thought, as was in its place in Mr Pope's 
familiar letter ; so that we see, young as he was, he had obtained 
the art of judiciously selecting ; one of the first provinces of good 



gray's letters. 23 

to town, and to better hopes of seeing you. 
If what you sent me last be the product of 
your melancholy, what may I not expect 
from your more cheerful hours? For by this 
time the ill-health that you complain of is (I 
hope) quite departed; though, if I were 
self-interested, 1 ought to wish for the con- 
tinuance of any thing that could be the oc- 
casion of so much pleasure to me. Low 
spirits are my true and faithful companions; 
they get up with me, go to bed with me, 
make journeys and returns as I do; nay, and 
pay visits, and will even affect to be jocose, 
and force a feeble laugh with me: but most 
commonly we sit alone together, and are 
the prettiest insipid company in the world. 
However, when you come, 1 believe they 
must undergo the fate of all hua»ble compa- 
nions, and be discarded. Would I could 
turn them to the same use that you have 
done, and make an Apollo of them. If 
they could write such verses with me, not 
hartshorn, nor spirit of amber, nor all that 
furnishes the closet of an apothecary's wi- 
dow, should persuade me to part with them: 
But, while 1 write to you, I hear the bad 
news of Lady Wal pole's death on Saturday 
night last. Forgive me if the thought of 
what my poor l^Qrace miist feel on that ac- 



24 gray's letters. 

count, obliges me to have done in reminding 
you that I am 

Yours, &c. 

London, Aug. 22, 1737. 



IX. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

I WAS hindered in my last, and so could not 
give you all the trouble I would have done. 
The description of a road, which your coach 
wheels have so often honoured, it would be 
needless to give you: suffice it that I arrived 
safe* at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in 
imagination; his dogs take up every chair 
in the house, so I am forced to stand at this 
present writing; and though the gout forbids 
him gallopping after them in the field, yet 
he continues still to regale his ears and nose 
with their comfortable noise and stink. He 
holds me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walk- 
ing when I should ride, and reading when I 
should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, 
that I have, at the distance of half a mile, 
through a green lane, a forest (the vulgar 
call it a common) all m}' own, at least as good 

* At Biu-nbaiQ in Buckinghamshire. 



gray's letters. 25 

as so, for I spy no human thing in it but my- 
self. It is a little chaos of mountains and 
precipices; mountains, it is true, that do not 
fiscend much above the clouds, nor are the 
declivities quite so amazing as Dover cliff; 
but just such hills as people who love their 
necks as well as I do may venture to climb, 
and crags that give the eye as much plea- 
sure as if they were more dangerous: Both 
vale and hill are covered with most venera- 
ble beeches, and other very reverend vege- 
tables, that, like most other ancient people, 
are always dreaming out their old stories to 
the winds, 

And as they bow their hoary tops relate, 
^ In murmuring sounds, the dark decrees of fate ; 
"While visions, as poetic eyes avow, 
Cling to each leaf and swarm on every bough. 

At the foot of one of these squats me I, (11 
penseroso) and there grow to the trunk for 
a whole morning. The timorous hare and 
sportive squirrel gambol around me like 
Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve; 
but I think he did not use to read Virgil, as 
I commonly do there. In this situation I 
often converse with my Horace, aloud too, 
that is talk to you, but I do not remember 
that I ever heard you answer me. I beg 



26 gray's letters. 

pardon for faking all the conversation to my- 
self, but it is entirely your own fault. We 
have old Mr. Southern at a gentleman's 
house a little way off, who often comes to 
see us: he is now seventy-seven years old, 
and has almost wholly lost his memory; but 
is as agreeable as an old man can be, at least 
I persuide myself so when I look at him, 
and think of Isabella and Oroonoko. I shall 
be in town in about three weeks. Adieu. , 

September, 1737. 

X. 

TO MR. WALPOLE.* 

I SYMPATHIZE With you in the sufferings 
which you foresee are coming upon you. 
We are both at present, I imagine, in no 
very agreeable situation; for my part 1 am 
under the misfortune of having nothing to do, 
but it is a misfortune which, thank my stars, 
I can pretty well bear. 1 ou are in a confu- 
sion of wine, and roaring, and hunting, and 
tobacco, and, heaven be praised, you too can 
pretty well bear it; while our evils are no 
more, I believe we shall not much repine. 
I imagine, however, you will rather choose 

*At this time with his father at Houghton* 



gray's letters. 27 

to converse with the living dead, that adorn 
the walls of your apartments, than with the 
dead living that deck the middles of them; 
and prefer a picture of still life to the reali- 
ties of a noisy one, and, as I guess, will imi- 
tate what you prefer, and for an hour or two 
at noon will stick yourself up as formal as if 
you had been fixed in your frame for these 
hundred years, with a pink or rose in one 
hand, and a great seal ring on the other. 
Your name, 1 assure you, has been propagat- 
ed in these countries by a convert of yours, 
one * * * ; he has brought over his whole 
family to you: they were before pretty good 
Whigs, but now they are absolute Walpoli- 
ans. We have hardly any body in the par- 
ish but knows exactly the dimensions of the 
hall and saloon at Houghton, and begin to 
believe that the ^lantern is not so great a 
consumer of the fat of the land as disaffected 
persons have said: For your reputation, we 
keep to ourselves your not hunting nor 
drinking hogan, either of which here would 
be sufficient to lay your honour in the dust. 
To-morrow se'nnight I hope to be in town, 
and not long after at Cambridge. 

I am, &c. 

Barnbam, Sept. 1737. 

* A favourite object of Toifv satire at the time. 



28 gray's letters. 

XI. 

FROM MR. WEST TO MR. GRAY. 

Receiving no answer to my last letter, which 
I writ above a month ago, I must own I am 
a little uneasy. The slight shadow of you 
which! had in town,* has only served to en- 
dear you to me the more. The moments I 
passed with you made a strong impression 
upon me. I singled you out for a friend, 
and I would have you know me to be yours,' 
if you deem me worthy. Alas, Gray, you 
cannot imagine how miserably my time 
passes away. My health and nerves and 
spirits are, thank my stars, the very worst, 
I think, in Oxford. Four-and-twenty hours 
of pure unalloyed health together, are as un- 
known to me as the 400,000 characters in 
the Chinese vocabulary. One of my com- 
plaints has of late been so over-civil as to 
visit me regularly once a month — -jam certus 
conviva. This is a painful nervous head- 
ache, which perhaps you have sometimes 
heard me speak of before. Give me leave 
to say, I find no physic comparable to your 
letters. If, as it is said in Ecclesiasticus, 
''Friendship be the physic of the mind," 



gray's letters. 29 

prescribe to me, dear Gray, as often and as 
much as you think proper, I shall be a most 
obedient patient. 

Nonego 
Fidis irascar medicis, ofFendar amicis. 

I venture here to write you down a Greek 
epigram,* which I lately turned into Latin, 
and hope you will excuse it. 

Perspicui paerum ludentem in raargine ri^i 

Immersit vitreae limpidus error aquae : 
Ai gelido ut mater moribundum e flumme traxit 

Credula, et amplexu fiinus inane fovet ; 
Paulatim puer in dilecto pectore, somno 

Languidus, aetemum iumina composuit. 

Adieu ! I am going to my tutor's • lectures 
on one Puffendorff, a very jurisprudent au- 
thor as you shall read on a summer's day. 

Believe me yours, &c, 

Christ Church, Dec. 2, 1738. 

* Of Posidippus. Fide Anthologia, II. Stephan.fi, 280. 



30 gray's letters. 

XII. 

TO MR. WEST. 

LiTERAS mi Favoni !* abs te demum,iinclius- 
tertins credo, accepi plane mellitas, nisi forte 
qua de aegritudine quadam tua dictum: atque 
hoc sane mihi habitum est non paulo acer- 
bius, quod te capitis morbo implicitum esse 
intellexi; oh morbum mihi quam odiosum! 
qui de industria id agit, ut ego in singulos 
menses, Dii boni, quantis jucunditatibus or- 
barer! quam ex animo mihi dolendum est, 
quod 

Medio de fonte leporum 
Surgit amari aliqiiid .' 

Salutem, mehercule, nolo, tarn parvipendas, 
atque amicis tam improbe consulas: quan- 
quam tute fortassis aestuas angusto limite 
mundi, viamque (ut dicitur) affectas Oljmpo, 
nos tamen non esse tam sublimes, utpote qui 
hisce in sordibus et faece diutius paululum 
versari voluraus, reminiscendum est: iilae 
tuee Musae, si te ament modo, derelinqui 

f * Mr. Gray, in all bis Latin compositions, addressed to this gen- 
tleman, calls bim Favoiiiu*, in allusion tu the name of Wt»t* 



gray's letters. 31 

paulisper non nimis aegre patientur: indulge, 
amabo te, plusquam soles, corporis exercita- 
tionibus: magis te campus habeat, aprico 
magis te dedas otio, ut ne id ingenium quod 
tam cultum curas, diligenter nimis dum foves, 
officiosarum matrum ritu, interimas. Vide 
quaeso, quam <«T^«;tjft»5 tecum agimus. 

Si de his pharmacis non satis liquet, sunt 
festivitates meraB, sunt facetis et risus; quos 
ego equidem si adhibere nequeo, tamen ad 
praBcipiendum (ut raedicorum fere mos est) 
certe satis sim; id, quod poetice sub finem 
epistolai lusisti, mihi gratissimum quidem ac- 
cidit; admodum Latine coctum et conditum 
tetrasticon, Graecam tamen illam ec^iXuxt mi- 
rifice sapit: tu quod restat, vide, sodes, hu- 
jusce hominis ignorantiam; cum, unde hoc 
tibi sit depromptum, (ut fatear) prorsus 
nescio: sane ego equidem niliil in capsis re- 
perio quo tibi minimae partis solutio fiat. 
Vale, et me ut soles, ama. 

A. D. 11 Ealend. Fefaruar. 



xrii.* 

FROM MR. WEST. 

I OUGHT to answer yon in Latin, but I feel I 
dare not enter the lists with you — cupidum, 
pater optime, vires deficiunt. Seriously, 
you write in that language with a grace and 
an Augustan urbanity, that amazes me: Your 
Greek too is perfect in its kind. And here 
let me wonder that a man, longe Graecorum 
doctissimus, should be at a loss for the verse 
and chapter whence my epigram is taken. 
I am sorry 1 have not my Aldus with me, 
that I might satisfy your curiosity; but he, 
with all my other literary folks, are left at 
Oxford, and therefore you must still rest in 
suspense. I thank you again and again for 
your medical prescription. I know very 
well that those "risus, festivitates, et face-* 
tiae" would contribute greatly to my cure, 
but then you must be my apothecary as well 
as physician, and make up the dose as well 
as direct it; send me, therefore, an electuary 

* This was written in French, but as I doubted whether it would 
stand the test of polite criticism, so well as the preceding would 
of learned, I chose to translate so much of it as I thought neeessary 
in order to preserve the chain of conrespoudence. 



gray's letters. 33 

of these drugs, made up "secundum artem, 
et eris mihi magnus Apollo," in both his ca- 
pacities, as a god of poets and a god of phy- 
sicians. Wish me.joy of leaving my college, 
and leave yours as fast as you can. 1 shall 
be settled at the temple very soon. 

Dartmouth-Street, Feb. 21, 1737-8. 



XIV. 

TO MR. WEST. 

* Barbaras aedesaditure mecum 
Quas Eris semper fovet inquleta, 
Lis ubi late souat, et togatum 

iEstuat agmen ! 

Dulcius qiianto, patulis sub uTmi 
Hospitae raniis ten;Pre jacentem 
Sic libris lioras, tenuitjue inertes 

Fallere Musa ? 

Ssepe enim curis vagor expedita 

Mente ; dun', hlandara meditans Camoenam, 

Vix malo rori, meminive seiae 

Cedere nocti ; 

* I choose to call this delicate Sapphic Ode the first original pi»- 
ductioi) of Mr. Gr.y's muse ; for verses imposed rfthc r by school 
mastereor tutors, ought xiot, I think, to be tal*;eii irto tht- conside- 
ration. There is seldom a versv t" at flows well from the pen of a 
real poet if it does uot flow yoluntarily. 

roL. IV. 3 



:34 GRAY S LETTERS. 

Et, pedes quo me rapiunt, in omni 
Colle Parnassiiin videor videre 
FertJlem silvae, gelidamque in orani 

Fonte Aganippen. 

Risit et Ver me, facilesque Nymphs 
Pfare captantem, nee ineleganti, 
Mane quicquid de violis eundo 

Surripit aura : 

Me reclinatuni teneram per herbam j 
Qua leves cursus aqua cunque ducit, 
Et moras dulci strepitu lapillo 

Nectit in omni. 

Hse novo nostrum fere pectus anno 
Simplices curae tenuere, coelum 
Quaradiu sudum explicuit Favoni 

Purior hora : 

Otia et campos nee adhuc relinquo, 
Nee raagls Phcebo Clytie fidelis ; 
(Ingruant venti licet, et senescat 

Mollior sestas.) 

Namque, seu, laetos hominum labores 
Prataque et monies recreante curru, 
Purpura tractus oriens Eoos 

Vestit, et auro ; 

Sedulus servo veneratus orbem 
Prodigum splendoris : amoeniori 
Sive dilectam meditatur igne 

Pingere Caljlen j 

Usque dura, fulgore magis magis jam 
Languido circum, variala nube? / 

Labitur furtim, viridisque in umbras 

Seena reoessit. 



rray's letters. 35 

O ego felix, vice si (uec unquam 
Surgerem nirsus) !*iinili cadentem 
Parca me lenis sineret quieto 

Fallere Letho ! 

Multa flagranti radiisque cincto 
Iritegris ah ! quam nihil inviderem, 
Cum Dei ardentes xuedius quadrigas 

Soutit Olympus ? 

Ohe ! amicule noster, et unde, sodes tu 
fiov9-o7FXTXKTog ad 60 repcntc evasisti ? jam 
te rogitatururn credo. Nescio, nercle, sic 
plane habet. Quicquid enim nugarum ««■< 
v^6Xns inter ambulandum in palimpsesto 
sciiptitavi, hisce te maxime impertiri visum 
est, quippe quern probare, quod meum est, 
aut certe ignoscere solitum probe novi : 
bona tua venia sit si forte videar in fine 
subtristior ; nam risui jamdudum salutem 
dixi : etiam paulo mcestitiae studiosiorem fac- 
tum sci'.^s, promptumque, Katmn 5raA«<« ^ct- 

X^Viii ffTiVilV KXKX^ 

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros \ 

Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater 

Felix I ill iino qui scateutera 

Pectore te, pia Nympha, seusit. 

Sed de me satis. Cura ut valeas, 
Jan. 1738. 



3t) GRAY S LETTERS. 

XV. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

I RETURN you a thousand thanks for your 
elegant ode, and wish you every joy you 
wish yourself in it. — But, take my word for 
it, you will never spend so agreeable a day 
here as you describe : alas ! the sun with us 
only rises to show us the way to Westmin- 
ster-Hall. — Nor must I forget thanking you 
for your little Alcaic fragment. The optic 
Naiads are infinitely obliged to you. 

I was last week at Richmond Lodge, 
with Mr. Walpole, for two days, and dined 
with ^Cardinal Fleury ; as far as my short 
sight can go, the character of his great art 
and penetration is very just, he is indeed 

Nulli peneti-abilis astro. 

I go to-morrow to Epsom, where I shall be 
for about a month. Excuse me, 1 am in 
haste, t but believe me always, &c. 

August 29, 1738. 

• Sir Robert Walpole. 

t Mr. West seems to have beeh, indeed, in haste when he writ 
tliis letter ; else, surely, his fine taste w«uld have led him to have 



gray's letters. 37 

XVI. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

My dear sir, I should say* Mr. Inspector 
General of the Exports and Imports ; but 
that appellation would make but an odd 
figure in conjunction with the three familiar 
monosyllables above written, for 

Non bene couveiiiunt nee In una setle moiantur 
Majestas et ainor. 

Which is, being interpreted. Love does not 
live at the Custom-house ; however, by 
what style, title, or denomination soever 
you choose to be dignified or distinguished 
hereafter, these three words will stick by 
you like a bur, and you can no more get 
quit of these and your christian name than 
St. Anthony could of his pig. My motions 
at present (which you are pleased to ask 

been more profuse in bis praise of the Alcaic fi-agment. He might 
(I think) have said, without paying too extravagant a compliment 
to Mr. Gray's genius, that no poet of the Augustan age ever pro- 
duced four moi'e perfect lines, or what would sooner impose upon 
the best critic, as being a genuine ancient composition. ^ 

* Mr. Walpole was just named to that post, which he exchanged 
fMn after for that of Usher of the Exchequer. 



38 gray's letters. 

fifter) are much like those of a pendulum or . 
(*Dr. Longically speaking) oscillatory. I 
swing from chapel or hall home, or from 
home to chapel or hall. All the strange in- 
cidents that happen in my journeys and re- 
turns I shall be sure to acquaint you with ; 
the most wonderful is, that it now rains ex- 
ceedingly, this has refreshed thej prospect, 
as the way for the most part lies between 
green fields on either hand, terminated with 
buildings at some distance, castles, I pre- 
sume, and of great antiquity. The roads are 
very good, being, as I suspect, the works of 
Julius Caesar's army, for they still preserve, 
in many places, the appearance of a pave- 
ment in pretty good repair, and, if they were 
not so near home, might perhaps be as 
much admired as the Via Appia ; there .are 
at present several rivulets to he crossed, 
and which serve to enliven the view all 
around. The country is exceeding fruitful 
in ravens and such black cattle ; but, not to 
tire you with my travels, I abruptly con- 
clude. 

Yours, &c. 

August, 1738. 

* Dr. Long, the master of Pembroke-Hall, at this time read lec- 
tures in exj)eriraeutal philosoj)hy. 

t All that follows is a humorously byperbolie description ef t\e 
quadrangle of Peter-House. 



GRAY*SXETTERS. 39 

XVII. 

TO MR. WEST. 

I AM coming away all so fast, and leaving 
behind me, without the least remorse, all 
the beauties of Sturbridge Fair. Its white 
bears may roar, its apes may wring their 
hands, and crocodiles cry their eyes out, aU's 
one for that; I shall not once visit them, nor 
so much as take my leave. The university 
has published a severe edict against schis- 
matical congregations, and created half a 
dozen new little procterlings to see its orders 
executed, being under mighty apprehensions 
lest ^Henley and his gilt tub should come to 
the fair and seduce their young ones : but 
their pains are to small purpose, for lo, after 
all, he is not coming. 

1 am at this instant in the very agonies of 
leaving college, and would not wish the 
worst of my enemies a worse situation. If 
you knew the dust, the old boxes, the bed- 
steads, and tutors that are about my ears, you 
would look upon this letter as a great effort 
of my resolution and unconcernedness in th* 

• Orator Henley. 



40 gray's lctters. 

midst of evils. I fill up my paper with a 
loose sort of version of that scene in Pastor 
Fido that begins, Care selve beati.* 

Sept, 1738. 

XVIII. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

1 THANK you again and again for your two 
last most agreeable letters. They could not 
have come more a-propos; I was without 
any books to divert me, and they supplied 
the want of every thing: I made them my 
classics in the country; they were my Ho- 
race and Tibulius — Non ita loquor assentandi 
causa, ut probe nosti si me noris, verum 
quia sic mea est sententia. I am but just 
come to town, and, to show you my esteem 
of your favours, I venture to send you by 
the penny-post, to your fatiier's, what you 
will find on the next page: I hope it will 
reach you soon after your arrival, your 
boxes out of the Avaggon, yourself out of the 
coach, and tutors out of your memor3^ 

Adieu, we shall see one another, I hope, 
to-morrow.. 

* This Latin version is extremely elegiac, [but as it is only a 
rersion I do not insert it. j 



gray's letters. 41 



ELEGIA. 

Quod mib; tam gfratse misisti dona Camoenae, 

Qualia Mse'ialsus Pan Deus ipse velit, 
Ainplf^ctor t^ Graie, et toto corde reposco. 

Oh desiderium jam niniis usque meum ! 
Et niihi riiva placent, et me qiioque ssepe volentem 

Diixerunt Dryades per sua prata Dese ; 
Sicubi lympha fugit liquido pede, sive virentem, 

^lagna deciis Hemoris. quercus opaeat huraum : 
lUuc mane novo vagor, iliuc vespere sero, 

Et. noto ut jacui gramiue, nota cano. 
Nee nosti-a ignorant divinam Amarj llida silva : 

Ah, si desit Amor, nil mihi rura placent. 
Hie jvig'S habitat Deus, ille in vallibus imis, 

Reguat et in Ccelis, regnat et OceaHO ; 
Ille gregem taurosque dofnat ; ssevique leonem 

Semini* ; ille fevos, ultus Adonin, apros : 
Quin et fei-vet amore nemus, rainoque sub omni 

Coneentu tremulo pluiuna gaudet ans. 
Dur« etiam in silvis agitant connubia plantse, 

Dura etiam et fertur saxa aniinasse Venus. 
Dui-ior et saxis. et robove durior ille est, 

Siiiecro siquis pectore araare vetat : 
Non illi in manibus sanctum deponei-e pignus, 

Non illi arcanum cor aperire velim ; 
Nescit amicltias, teneros qui nescit amores : 

Ah ! si nulla Venus, nil mihi rura placent. 
Me licet a p«tria long^ ir. teilure jul^erent 

Externa positunj rluctre Fata dies ; 
Si vultus modo araatus adessct, non ego contra 

Plorarem magnos voce quersnte De»s. 



42 gray's letters. 



At dulci in gnereio curarum oblivia 
Nil ci ptreoi praiter posse placere mose ; 

Nee i)ona fortuiise aspiciens, ueque juuiiera 
Ilia ir.tra optarem bi-achia cara mori. 
Sep. 17, 1738. 



Mr. Gray continued at his father's house in Comhill till itie 
March following;, n which iiterval Mr. Walpole, Keing disiiiclin- 
ad lo r:ter so early into parlia.iient, prevailed on sir Robert Wal- 
pole to ptrmit him to f;o abroad, and on Mr. Gray to be the c«ra- 
paiiiun of his travels. The correspondence is defective towaixJs 
the end of his travels, and includes i.o drscriptiou either of Venice 
or its te.Titory ; the last places which Mr. Gray visited : a defect 
whicl was occasioned by an unfortui.nte disaj^reement between him 
and Mr Walpole, and ejided in iheir stpuvation at Regpno. Mr. 
Gray wtnt befoi-e him to Venice ; and staying there oiily til) he 
Qould fit d means of returning tu England, he made the best of his 
way home, repassing the Alps, and following almost the sawie 
route through France by which he had before gone to Italy. 



XIX. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Amiens, April 1, N. S. 1739. 

As we made but a very short journey to- 
day, and came to our inn early, I sit down 
to give you some account of our expedition. 
On the '29th (according to the style here) 
we left Dover at twelve at noon, and with a 



gray's letters. 43 

pretty brisk gale, which pleased every body 
mij^hty well, except myself, who was ex- 
tremely sick the whole time; we reached 
Calais by five: the weather changed, and it 
began to snow hard the minute we got into 
the harbour, where we took the boat, and 
soon landed. Calais is an exceeding old, but 
very pretty town, and we hardly saw any 
thing there that was not so new and so dif- 
ferent from England, that it surprised us 
agreeably. We went the next morning to 
tba great church, and were at high mass (it 
being Easter Monday). We saw also the 
Convent of the Capuchins, and the nuns of 
St. Dominic; with these last we held much 
conversation, especially with an English nun, 
a Mrs, Davis, of whose work I sent you, by 
the return of the p-icquet, a letter-case to 
remember her by. In the afternoon we took 
a post chaise (it still snowing very hard) for 
Boulogne, which was only eighteen miles 
further. This chaise is a strange sort of 
conveyance, of much greater use than beau- 
ty, resembling an ill-shaped chariot, only 
with the door opening before instead of the 
side; three horses draw it, one between the 
shafts, and the other two on each side, on 
one of which the postillion rides, and drivel 



44 gray's letters. 

too.* This ^vehicle will, upon occasion, go 
fourscore miles a daj, but Mr. Walpole, be- 
ing in no hurry, chooses to make easy jour- 
neys of it, and they are easy ones indeed; 
for the motion is much like that of a sedan; 
we go about six miles an hour, and com- 
monly change horses at the end of it. It is 
true they are no very graceful steeds, but 
they go well, and through roads which they 
say are bad for France, but to me they seem 
gravel walks and bowling-greens; in short, 
it vvould be the finest travelling in the world, 
were it not for the inns, which are mostly 
terrible places indeed. But to describe our 
progress somewhiit more regularly, we came 
into Boulogne when it was almost dark, and 
went out pretty early on Tuesday morning; 
so that all 1 can say about it is, that it is a 
large, old, fortified tovvn, with more English 
in it than French. On Tuesday we were to 
go to Abbeville, seventeen leagues, or fifty- 
one short English miles; but by the way we 
dined at Montreuil, much to our hearts' con- 
tent, on stinking mutton cutlets, addled eggs, 
and ditch water. Madame the hostess made 
her appearance in long lappets of bone lace, 
and a sack of linsey-woolsey. We supped 

• This was before the introduction of post-chaises hevCj or it 
waold ttot hare appeared a sircumstsuie* worthy notice. 



grayV^ letters. • 45 

and lodged pretty well at Abbeville, and had 
time to see a little of it before we caoie out 
this morning. There are seventeen con- 
vents in it, out of which we i?avv the chapels 
of the Minims and the Carmelite nuns. We 
are now come further thirt}^^ miles to Amiens, 
the chief city of the province of Picardy. 
We have seen the cathedral, which is just 
what that of Canierbury must have been be- 
fore the reformation. It is about the same 
size, a huge Gothic building, beset on the 
outside with thousands of small statues, and 
within adorned with beautiful painted win- 
dows, and a vast number of chapels, dressed 
out in all their linery of altar-pieces, em- 
broidery, gilding, and marble. Over the 
high altar are *f)reserved, in a very large 
wrought shrine of massy gold, the relics of 
St. Firmin, their patron saint. We went 
also to the chapels of the Jesuit, and Ursu- 
line nuns, the latter of which is very richly 
adorned. To-morrow we shall lie at Cler- 
mont, and next day reach Paris. The coun- 
try we have passed through hitherto has 
been flat, open, but agreeably diversifjed 
with villages, fields well-cultivated, and little 
rivers. On every hillock is a windmill, a 
crucitix, or a Virgin Mary dressed m flowers, 
and a sarcenet robe; one sees not many peo- 



46 gray's letters. 

pie or carriages on the road; now and then 
indeed you meet a strolling friar, a country- 
man with his great muif, or a woman riding 
astride on a little ass, with short petticoats, 
and a great head-dress of blue wool. * * * 



XX. 

TO M R. WEST. 

Paris, April 12, 1739. 

Enfin done me voici a Paris. Mr. Walpole 
is gone out to supper at lord Conway's, and 
here 1 remain alone, though invited too. 
Do not think I make a merit of writing to 
you preferably to a good supper; for these 
three days we have been here, have ac- 
tuidly given me an aversion to eating in gen- 
eral. If hunger be the best sauce to meat, 
the French are certainly the worst cooks in 
the world; for what tables we have seen 
have been so delicately served, and so pro- 
fusely, that," after rising from one of them, 
one imagines it impossible ever to eat again. 
And now, if I tell you all I have in my head, 
you will believe me mad; mais n'importe, 
courage, allons! for if I wait till my head 
grow clear and settle a little, you may stay 



GRAY S LETTERS. 47 

long enough for a letter. Six days have we 
been coming hither, which other people do 
in two: they have not been disagreeable 
ones; through a fine, open country, admira- 
ble roads, and i^i an easy conveyance; the 
inns not absolutely intolerable, and images 
quite unusual presenting themselves on all 
hands. At Amiens we saw the fine cathedral, 
and eat pate de perdix; passed through the 
park of Chantilly by the duke of Bourbon's 
palace, which we only beheld as we passed; 
broke down at Lausarche; slopped at St. 
Denis, saw all the beautiful monuments of 
the kings of France, and the vast treasures 
of the abbey, rubies, and emeralds as big as 
small eggs, crucifixes and vows, crowns and 
reliquaires, of inestimable value; but of all 
their curiosities the thing the most to our 
tastes, and which they indeed do the justice 
to esteem the glory of their collection, was 
a vase of an entire onyx, measuring at least 
five inches over, three deep, and of great 
thickness. It is at least two thousand years 
old, the beauty of the stone and the sculpture 
upon it (representing the mysteries of Bac- 
chus) beyond expression admirable; we have 
dreamed of it ever since. The jolly old Bene- 
dictine, that showed us the treasures had in 
his youth been ten years a soldier; he laugh- 



48 

ed at all the relics, was very full of stories, 
and mighty obliging; On Saturday evening 
we got to Paris, atid were driving through 
the streets a long while before we knew 
where vve were. The minute we came, 
voila Ptfilors Holdernepse, Conway, and his 
brother; all stayed supper, and till two 
o'clock in the morning, for here nobody ever 
sleeps; it is not the way* Next day go to 
dine at my lord Holdernesse's, there was 
the Abbe Prevot, author of the Cleveland, 
and sev'eral other pieces much esteemed: 
the rest were Englisli. At night we went to 
the Fandore; a spectacle literally, for it is 
nothing bat a beautiful piece of machinery 
of three scenes. The first represents the 
chaos, and by degrees the separation of the 
elements: the second, the temple of Jupiter, 
and the giving of the box to Pandora: the 
third, the opening of the box, and all the 
mischiefs that ensued. An absurd design, 
but executed in the highest perfection, and 
that in one of the finest theatres in the 
world; it is the grande salle des machines in 
tlie paiais des Tuilleries. Next day dined 
at Icrd Waldegrave's: then to the opera. 
Imagine to yourself for the drama four acts* 

* The French opera has only three acts, but often a prologue on 
a different subject, which (as Mr. Wilpole informs me, who saw it 
at the same time) was the case in this very representation. 



gray's letters. 49 

entirely unconnected with each other, each 
founded on some little history, skilf'tlly 
taken out of an ancient author, e g. Ovid's 
Metamorphoses, &c. and with great address 
converted into a French piece of gallantry. 
For instance, that which 1 sa\v, called the 
Ballet de la Paix, had its first act built upon 
the story of Nireus. Homer having said 
that he was the handsomest man of his time, 
the poet, imagining such a one could not 
want a mistress, has given him one. These 
two come in and singsentiment in lamentable 
strains, neither air nor recitative; only, to 
one's great joy, they are every now and 
then interrupted by a dance, or (to one's 
great sorrow) by a chorus that borders the 
stage from one end to the other, and screams, 
past all power of simile to represent. The 
second act was Baucis and Philemon. Baucis 
is a beautiful young shepherdess, and Phile- 
mon her swain. Jupiter falls in love with 
her, but nothing will prevail upon her; so it 
is all mighty well, and the chorus sing and 
dance the praises of Constancy. The two 
other acts were about Iphis and lanthe, and 
the judgment of Paris. Imagine, I say, all 
this transacted by cracked voices,, trilling di- 
visions upon two' notes and a half, accompa- 
nied by an orchestra of humstrums, and a 

VOL. IV. 4 



50 ORAV S LETTERS. 

whole house more attentive than if Farinelli 
sung, and you will almost have formed a just 
notion of the thing. Our astonishment at 
tl.eir absurdit}' you can never conceive; we 
had enough to do to express it by screaming 
an hour louder than the whole dramatis per- 
sonee. We have also seen twice the Come- 
die Fran^oise; first, the Mahomet Second, a 
tragedy that has had a great run of late; and 
the thing itself does not want its beauties, but 
the actors are beyond measure delightful. 
Mademoiselle Gaussin (M. Voltaire's Zara) 
has with a charming (though little) person 
the most pathetic tone of voice, the finest 
expression in her face, and most proper ac- 
tion imaginable. There is also a Dufrene, 
who did the chief character, a handsome man 
and a prodigious fine actor. The second 
we saw was the Philosophe marie, and here 
they performed as well in comedy; there is 
a Mademoiselle Quinault, somewhat in Mrs. 
Clive's way, and a Monsieur Grandval, in 
the nature of Wilks, who is the genteelest 
thing in the world. There are several more 
would be much admired in England, and 
many (whom we have not seen) much cele- 
brated here. Great part of our time is 
speut in seeing churches aild palaces full of 
fine pictures, &c. the quarter of which is 



gray's letters. 61 

not yet exhausted. For my part, I could 
entertain myself this month merely with 
the common streets and the people in 
them. * * *• 



XXI. 

TO MR. WEST. 

Paris, May 22, 1739. 

After the little particulars aforesaid i sliould 
have proceeded to a journal of our transac- 
tions for this week past, should have carried 
you post from hence to Versailles, hurried 
you through the gardens to Trianon, back 
again to Paris, so away to Chantilly. But 
the fatigue is perhaps more than you can 
bear, and moreover I think 1 have reason to 
stomach your last piece of gravity. Sup- 
posing you were in your soberest mood I 
am sorry you should think me capable of 
ever being so dissipe, so evapore, as not to 
be in a condition of relishing any thing you 
could say to me'. And now, if you have a 
mind to make your peace with me, arouse ye 
from your megrims and your melancholies, 
and (for exercise is good for you) throw 
away your night-cap, call for your jack- 



62 gray's letters. 

boots, and set out with me, last Saturday 

evening, for Versailles and so at eight 

o'clock, passing through a road speckled 
with vines, and villas, and hares, and par- 
tridges, we arrive at the great avenue, 
flanked on either hand with a double row of 
trees about half a mile long, and with the 
palace itsfflf to terminate the view; facing 
which, on each side of you, is placed a semi- 
circle of very handsome buildings, which 
form the stables. These we will not enter 
into, because you know we are no jockies. 
Well! and is this the great front of Ver- 
sailles? What a huge heap of littlenessl it 
is composed, as it were, of three courts, all 
open to the eye at once, and gradually di- 
minishing till you come to the ro)'al apart- 
ments, which on this side present but half a 
dozen windows and a balcony. This last is 
all that can be called a front, for the rest is 
only great wings. The hue of all this mass 
is black, dirty red, and yellow; the first pro- 
ceeding from stone changed by age; the 
second, from- a mixture of brick; and the 
last, from a profusion of tarnished gilding. 
You cannot see a more disagreeable tout- 
ensemble; and, to finish the matter, it is all 
stuck over in many places with small busts 
of a tawny hue between every two windows. 



gray's letters. 53 

We pass through this to go into the garden, 
and here the case is indeed altered; nothing 
can be vaster and more magnificent than the 
back front; before it a very spacious terrace 
spreads itself, adorned with two large basins; 
these are bordered and lined (as most of the 
others) with white marble, with band- 
some statues of bronze reclined on their 
edges. From hence you 'descend a huge 
flight of steps into a semi-circle formed by 
woods, that are cut all round into niches, 
whjch are filled with beautiful copies of all 
the famous antique statues in white marble. 
Just in the midst is t)ie basin of Latona; 
she and her children are standing on the top 
of a rock in the middle, on the sides of 
which are the peasants, some half, some 
totally changed into frogs, all which throw 
out water at her in great plenty. From thi«; 
place runs on the great alley, which brings 
YOU into a complete round, where is the 
basin of Apollo, the biggest in the gardens. 
He is rising in his car out of the water, sur- 
rounded by nymphs and tritons, all in bronze, 
and finely executed; and these, as tho}^ 
play, raise a perfect storm about him: be- 
yond this is the great canal, a prodigious 
long piece of water, that terminates the 
whole. All this you have at one coup d'oeil 



b4 GRAY S LETTERS. 

in entering the garden, which is truly great. 
I cannot say as much of the general taste of 
the place; every thing you behold savours 
too much of art; all is forced, all is con- 
strained about you; statues and vases sowed 
every where without distinction; sugar- 
loaves and minced-pies of yew; scrawl- 
work of box, and little squirting jets d'eau, 
besides a great sameness in the walks, cannot 
help striking one at first sight, not to men- 
tion the silliest of labyrinths, and all ^Esop's 
fabl'S in water; since these were designed 
in usumDelphini only. Here then we walk by 
moon light, and hear the ladies and the night- 
ingales sing. Next morning, being Whitsun- 
day, make ready to go to the Installation of 
nine knights du Saint Esprit, Cambis is one:* 
high mass celebrated with music, great 
crowd, much incense, king, queen, dauphin, 
mesdames, cardinals, and court! knights ar- 
rayed by his majesty; reverences before the 
altar, not bows, but curtsies; stiff hams; 
much tittering among the ladi-es; trumpets, 
kettle-drums, and fifes. My dear West, I 
am vastly delighted with Trianon, all of us 
with Chantilly; if you would know why, you 

*The Comte de Cambis w.^ lately returned from his Embassy 
in Eu^landt 



<iRAY S LETTERS, bO 



must have patience, for I can hold my pen 
no longer, except to tell you that I saw Bri- 
tannicus last nijrht; all the characters, par- 
ticularly Agrippina ami Nero, clone to per- 
fection; to-morrow Phaedra and Hi()jjolvtus. 
We are making you a little bundle of petite 
pieces; there is nothing in them, hut they 
are acting at present; there are two Cre- 
billon's Letters, and Amusemens sur Je Ian- 
gage des Betes, said to be of one Bougeant, 
a Jesuit; they are both esteemed, ;i:id I rely 
come out. This day se'nnight we go to 
Rheims. 



XXH, 

TO MIS MOTHER. 

Rheims, June 21, N. S. 17Sf. 

We have now been settled almost l iee 
weeks in this citv, which is more con^^idera- 
ble upon account of its size and antiquity, 
than from the number of its inhabitants, or 
any advantages of commerce. There is 
little in it worth a stranger's curiosity, be- 
sides the cathedral church, which is a vast 
Gothic building of a surprising beauty and 
lightness, all covered over with a profusion 



bG gray's letters. 

of little statues, and other ornaments. It is 
here the kings of France are crowned by the 
arclibiflhop of Rheims, who is the tirst peer, 
and the primate of the kingdom. The holy 
vessel made use of on <^^hat occasion, which 
contains the oil, is kept in the church of 
St. Nicasius hard by, and is believed to 
have been brought by an angel from heaven 
at the coronation of Clovis, the first Chris- 
tian king. The streets in general have but 
a melanch/)ly aspect, the houses all old; the 
public walks run along the side of a great 
moat under the ramparts, where one hears 
a continual croaking of frogs; the country 
round about is one great plain covered with 
vines, which at this time of the year afford 
no very pleading prospect, as being not 
above a foot high. What pleasures the 
place denies to the sight, it makes up to the 
palate; since you have nothing to drink but 
ihe best champaigne in the world, and all' 
sorts of provisions equally good. As to 
other pleasures, there is not that freedom of 
conversation among the people of fashion 
iiere, that one sees in other parts of France; 
for though they are not very numerous in 
this place, and consequently must live a good 
deal together, yet they never come to any 
f^reat familiarity with one another. As my 



gray's letters. 57 

lord Conway had spent a good part of his 
time among them, his brother, and we with 
him, were soon introduced into all their as- 
semblies. As soon as you enter, the lady of 
the house presents each of you a card, and 
offers }ou a party at quadrille; you sit down, 
and play forty deals without intermission, 
excepting one quarter of an hour, when 
every body rises to eat of what they call the 
gonter, which supplies the place of our tea, 
and is a service of wine, fruits, cream, sweet- 
meats, crawfish, and cheese. People take 
what they like, and sit down again to play; 
after that, they make little parties to go to 
the walks together, and then all the com- 
pany retire to their separate habitations. 
Very seldom any suppers or dinners are 
given; and this is the manner they live 
Among one another; not so much out of any 
aversion they have to pleasure, as out of a 
sort of formality they have contracted by not 
being much frequented by people who have 
lived at Paris. It is sure they do not hate 
gayety any more than the rest of their coun- 
try-people, and can enter into diversions, 
that are once proposed, with a good grace 
enough; for instance, the other evening we 
happened to be got together in a company of 
eighteen people, men and women of the 



58 gr^^y's letters. 

bes! fashion here, at a garden in the town, 
to walk; when one of the hulies bethought 
herstlf of askins^, why should not we sup 
here? Inrimediately the cloth was laid by the 
side of a fountain under thf trees, and a very 
elegtint supper served up: after which ano- 
ther said, Conie, let us sing; and directly 
be^Mn herself From singing we insensibly- 
fell to dancing, and singing in a round: when 
somebody mentioned the violins, and imme- 
diately a coripany of them was ordered. 
Minuets were begun in the open air, and 
then some country-dances, which held till 
four o'clock next morning; at which hour 
the gayest l^dy there proposed, thHt such as 
were weary should get into their coaches, 
and the r'?st of them should dance before 
them with the music in the van; and in this 
manner we paraded through all the princi- 
pal streets of the city and waked every 
bodv in it. Mr. Walpole had a mind to make 
a custom of the thing, and would have given 
a ball in the same manner next week, but 
the women did not come into it; so I believe 
it will drop, and they will return to their 
dull cards, and usual formalities. We are 
not to stay above a month longer here, and 
shall then go to Dijon, the chief city of Bur- 
gundy, a very splendid and a very gay town; 
at least such is the present design. 



SRA5f's LETTERS. 69 

XXIII. 

TO HIS FATHER. 

Dijon, Friday, Sept. 11, N. S. 1739. 

We have made thre« ihort days' journey of 
it from Rheims hither, where we arrived 
the night before last. The road we have 
passed through has been extremely agreea- 
ble: it runs through the most fertile part of 
Champaigne by the side of the river Marne, 
with a chain of hills on each hand at some 
distance, entirely covered with woods and 
vineyards, and every now and then the 
ruins of some old castle on their tops: we 
lay at St. Dizier the tirst night, and at 
Langres the second, and got hither the next 
evening time enough to have a full view of 
this city in entering it. It lies in a very 
extensive plain covered with vines and corn, 
and consequently is plentifully stipplied with 
both. I need not tell you that it is the chief 
city of Burgundy, nor that it is of great an- 
tiquit}'; considering which one should ima- 
gine it ought to he larger than one finds it. 
However, what it wants in extent is made 
up in beauty and cleanliness, and iii rich 
convents and churches, most ot which we 



60 gray's letters. 

have seen. The palace of the States is a 
magnificent new building, where the duke of 
Bourbon is lodged when he comes every 
three years to hold that assembly, as gover- 
nor of the province. A quarter of a mile 
out of the town is a famous abbey of Carthu- 
sians, which we are just returned from see- 
ing. In their chapel are the tombs of the 
ancient dukes of Burgundy, that were so 
powerful, till, at the death of Charles the 
Bold, the last of them, this part of his domi- 
nions was united by Louis XI. to the crown 
of France. To-morrow we are to pay a 
visit to the abbot of the Cistercians, who 
lives a few leagues off, and who uses to re- 
ceive all strangers with great civility; his 
abbey is one of the richest in the kingdom; 
he keeps open house always, and lives with 
great magnificence. We have seen enough 
of this town already, to make us regret the 
time we spent at Rheims; it is full of peo- 
ple of condition, who seem to form a much 
more agreeable society than we found in 
Champaigne; but as we shall stay here but 
two or three days longer, it is not worth 
while to be introduced into their houses. 
On Monday or Tuesday we are to set out 
for Lyons, which is two days' journey dis- 
tant, and from thence you shall hear again 
from me. 



gray's letters. 61 



XXIV. 



TO MR. WEST. 



Lyons, Sept. 18, N. S. 1739. 

ScAVEZ vous bien, mon cher ami, que je 
vous hais, que je vous deteste? voila des 
termes un peu fortes; and that will save 
me, upon a just computation, a page of pa- 
per and six drops of ink; which, if I confin- 
ed myself to reproaches of a more mode- 
rate nature, 1 should be obliged to employ 
in using you according to your deserts. 
What! to let any body reside three months 
at Rheims, and write but once to them? 
Please to consult Tully de Amicit. page 5, 
line 25, and you will find it said in express 
terms, " Ad amicum inter Remos relegatum 
mense uno quinquies scriptum esto;" noth- 
ing more plain, or less liable to false inter- 
pretations. Now because, I suppose, it will 
give you pain to know we are in being, I 
take this opportunity to tell you that we are 
at the ancient and celebrated Lugdunum. a 
city situated upon the confluence of the 
Rhone and Saone (Arar, I should say) two 
people, who, though of tempers extremely 
unlike, think fit to join hands here, and make 



62 gray's letters. 

a little party to travel to the Mediterranean 
in company: the lady comes gliding along 
through the fruitful plains of Burgundy, in- 
credibili lenitate, ita ut oculis in utram par- 
tem tluit judicari non possit; the gentleman 
runs all rough and roaring down from the 
mountains of Switzerland to meet her; and 
with all her soft airs she likes him never the 
worse: she goes through the middle of the 
city in state, and he passes incog, without 
the waHs, but waits for her a little below. 
The houses here are so high, and the streets 
so narrow, as would be sufficient to render 
-Lyons the dismallest place in the world; but 
the number of people, and the face of com- 
merce diffused about it, are, at least, as suffi* 
cient to makp it the liveliest. Between 
these two sufficiencies, you will be in doubt 
what to. think of it; so we shall leave the 
city, and proceed to its environs, which are 
beautiful beyond expression: it is surrounded 
with mountains, and those mountains all be- 
dropped and bespeckled with houses, gar- 
dens, and plantations of the rich Bourgeois, 
who have from thence a prospect of the 
city in the vale b«^low on one hand, on the 
other the rich plains of the Lyonnois, with 
th.i rivers winding among them, and the 
Alps, with the mountains of Daupbine, to 



gray's letters. 63 

bound the view. All yesterday morning we 
were busied in climbing up Mount Four- 
viere, where the ancient city stood perched 
at such a height, that nothing but the hopes 
of gain could certainly ever persuade their 
neighbours to pay them a visit. Here are 
the ruins of the emperors' palaces, that re- 
sided here, that is to say, Augustus and Se- 
verus: they consist in nothing but great 
masses of old wall, that have only their qua- 
lity to make them respected In a vineyard 
of the Minims are remains of a theatre; the 
fathers, whom they belong to, hold them in 
no esteem at all, and would have showed us 
their sacristy and chapel instead of them. 
The Ursuline Nuns have in their garden 
some Roman baths, but we having the mis- 
fortune to be men, and heretics, they did not 
think proper to admit us. Hard by are 
eight arches of a most magnificent aqueduct, 
said to be erected by Antony, when his le- 
gions were quartered here: there are many 
other parts of it dispersed up and down the 
country, for it brought the water from a 
river many leagues off in La Forez. Here 
are remains too of Agrippa's seven great 
roads which met at Lyons; in some places 
they lie twelve feet deep in the ground. 
In short, a thousand matters that you shall 



64 gray's letters. 

not know, till you give me a description of 
the Pais de Tombridge, and the efl'ect its 
waters have upon you. 



XXV. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

Temple, Sept. 28, 1739. 

If wishes could turn to realities, i would 
fling down my law books, and sup with you 
to-night. But, alas ! here I am doomed to 
fix, while you are fluttering from city to city, 
and enjoying all the pleasures which a gay 
climate can afibrd. It is out of the power of 
my heart to envy your good fortune, yet I 
cannot help indulging a few natural desires; 
as far example, to take a walk with you on 
the banks of the Rhone, and to be climbing 
up mount Fourviere; 

Jam mens prastrepidans aret vag^i : 
Jam laeti studio pedes vigescuat. 

However, so long as I am not deprived of 
your correspondence, so long shall I always 
find some pleasure in being at home. And, 
setting all vain curiosit}^ aside, when the tit 
is over, and my reason begins to come to 



gray's letters. 65 

herself, I have several other powerful mo- 
tives which might eas^ily cure me of mv rest- 
less inclinations. Amongst these, my mo- 
ther's ill state of health is not the least, 
which was the reason of our going to Tun- 
bridge; so that you cannot expect much 
description or amusement from tiience. Nor 
indeed is there much room lor eitiier; for 
uU diversions there may be reduced to two 
articles, gaming and going to church. They 
were pleased to publish certain Tunbrigiana 
this season; but such ana ! I believe there 
were never so many vile little verses put 
together before. So much for Tunbri.ige. 
London affords me as little to say. VVliat ! 
so huge a town as London ? Yes, consider 
only how I live in that town. 1 never go 
into the gay or high world, and consequently 
receive nothing from thence to brighten my 
imagination. The busy world I leave to the 
busy; and am resolved never to talk politics 
till I can act at the same time. To tell old 
stories, or prate of old books, seems a little 
musty; and toujours cbapon bouilli, won't 
do. However, for want of better flire, take 
another little mouthful of my poetry, 

O meae jucunda comes quietis I 
Quae fere aegrotiuu sulita cs leTate 



6S gray's letters. 

Pectus, et seniim, a)i .' nimis ingi'uente? 
Fallere curas : 

Quid canes ? quanto Lyra die furore 
Gesties, quando hac reducem sodalem 
Glauciam* gaudere simul videbis 
Meque sub umbra ? 



XXVI. 

TO HIS MOTHER. 

Lyons, Oct. 13, N. S. 1739. 

It is now almost five weeks since I left Di- 
jon, one of the gayest and most agreeable 
little cities of France, for Lyons, its re- 
verse in all these particulars. it is the 
second in the kingdom in bigness and rank; 
the streets excessively narrow and nasty; 
the houses immensely high and large; (that, 
for instance, where we are lodged, has twen- 
ty-five rooms on a floor, and that for five 
stories) ; it swarms with inhabitants like 
Paris itself, but chiefly a mercantile people, 
too much given up to commerce to think of 
their own, much less of a stranger's diver- 
sions. We have no acquaintance in the town, 

* He gives Mr. Gray the name of Glaucias frequently in hi& 
Latin verse, as Mr. Gray calls him Farwjius. 



gray's letters. 67 

but such English as happen to be passing 
through here, in their way to Italy and the 
south, which at present happen to, be near 
thirty in number. It is a fortnight since we 
set out from hence upon a little excursioiTto 
Geneva. We took the longest road, which 
lies through Savoy, on purpose to see a fa- 
mous monastery, called the Grande Char- 
treuse, and had no reason to think our time 
lost After having travelled seven days very 
slow (for we did not change horses, it being 
impossible for a chaise to go post in these 
roads) we arrived at a little village among 
the mountains of Savoy, called Echelles; 
from thence we proceeded on horses, who 
are used to the way, to the mountain of the 
Chartreuse. It is six miles to the top; the 
road runs winding up it, commonly not six 
feet broad; on one hand is the rock with 
woods of pine-trees hanging over head; on 
the other a monstrous precipice, almost per- 
pendicular, at the bottom of which rolls a 
torrent, that sometimes tumbling among the 
fragments of stone that have fallen from on 
high, and sometimes precipitating itself down 
vast descents with a noise like thunder, 
which is still made greater by the echo from 
the mountains on each side, concurs to form 
one of the most solemn, the most romantic. 



68 gray's letters. 

and the most astonishing scenes I ever be- 
held. Add to this the strange views made 
by the crags andcUffs on the other hand; the 
cascades that in many places throw them- 
selves from the very summit down into the 
vale, and the river below, and many other 
particulars impossible to describe; you will 
conclude we had no occasion to repent our 
pains. This place St. Bruno chose to retire 
to, and upon its very top founded the afore- 
said convent, which is the superior of the 
whole order. When we came there, the 
two fathers, who are commissioned to enter- 
tain strangers (for the rest must neither 
speak one to another, nor to any one else), 
received us very kindly; and set before us 
a repast of dried fish, eggs, butter, and fruits, 
all excellent in their kind, and extremely 
neat. They pressed us to spend the night 
there, and to stay some days with them; but 
this we could not do, so they led us about 
their house, which is, you must think, like 
a little city; for there are 100 fathers, be- 
sides 300 servants, that make their clothes, 
grind their corn, press their wine, and do 
every thing among themselves. The whole 
is quite orderly and simple; nothing of finery, 
but '^he wonderful decency, and the strange 
situation, more than supply the place of it. 



gray's letters. 69 

In the evening we descended by the same 
way, passing through many clouds that were 
then forming themselves on the mountain's 
side. Next day we continued our journey 
by Chamberry, which, though the chief city 
of the duchy, and residence of the king of 
Sardinia, when he comes into this part of his 
dominions, makes but a very mean and insig- 
nificant appearance; we lay at Aix, once fa- 
mous for its hot baths, and the next night at 
Annecy; the day after, by noon, we got to 
Geneva. I have not time to say any thing 
about it, nor of our solitary journey back 
again. * * * 



XXVII. 

TO HIS FATHER. 

Lyons, Oct. 25, N. S. 1739. 

In my last I gave you the particulars of our 
little journey to Geneva: I have only to add, 
that we stayed about a week, in order to see 
Mr. Conway settled there. I do not wonder 
so many English choose it for their resi- 
dence; the city is very small, neat, prettily 
built, and extremely populous; the Rhone 
runs through the middle of it, and it is sur 



70 

rounded with new fortifications, that give it 
a military compact air; which, joined to the 
happy, lively countenances of the inhabitants, 
and an exact discipline always as strictly ob- 
served as in time of war, makes the little 
republic appear a match for a much greater 
power; though perhaps Geneva, and all that 
belongs to it, are not of equal extent with 
Windsor and its two parks. To one that has 
passed through Savoy, as we did, nothing 
can be more striking than the contrast, as 
soon as he approaches the town. Near the 
gates of Geneva runs the torrent Arve, which 
separates it from the king of Sardinia's do- 
minions; on the other side of it lies a coun- 
try naturally, indeed, line and fertile; but 
you meet with nothing in it but meager, rag- 
ged, bare-footed peasants, with their child- 
ren, in extreme misery and nastiness: and 
even of these no great numbers. You no 
sooner have crossed the stream I have men- 
tioned, but poverty is no more; not a beggar, 
hardly a discontented face to be seen ; nu- 
merous, and well-dressed people swarming on 
the ramparts; drums beating, soldiers, well- 
clothed and armed, exercising; and folks, 
with business in their looks, hurrying to and 
fro; all contribute to make any person, who. 
is not blind, sensible what a difference there 



gray's LETTERS, 71 

is between the two governments, that are the 
causes of one view and the other. The 
beautiful lake, at one end of which the town 
is -ituated; its extent; the several states that 
border upon it; and all its pleasures, are too 
well known for me to mention them. We 
sailed upon it a* far as the dominions of Ge- 
neva extend, that is, about two leagues and a 
half on each side; and landed at several of 
the little houses of pleasure that the inhabi- 
tants have built all about it, who received us 
with much politeness. The same night we 
eat part of a trout, taken in the lake, that 
weighed thirty-seven pounds: as great a mon- 
ster as it appeared to us, it was esteemed 
there nothing extraordinary, and they assur- 
ed us, it was not uncommon to catch then= of 
fifty pounds: they are dressed here, and sent 
post to Paris upon some great occasions; nay, 
even to Madrid, as we were told. The road 
we returned through was not the same we 
came by; we crossed the Rhone at Seyssel, 
and passed for three d;.ys amonj; the moun- 
tains of Bugey, without meeting with any- 
thing new; at last we came out into the 
plains of La Bresse, and so to Lyons again. 
Sir Robert has written to Mr. Walpole, to 
desire he would go to Italy, which he has 
resolved to do: so that all the scheme of 



72 GRAY S LETTERS. 

spen ling the winter in the south of France 
is laid aside, and we are to pass it in a 
much l^ner country. You may imagine 1 
am not sorry to have this opportunity of 
seeing the place in the world that best de- 
serves it: besides, as the pope, who is 
eighty-eight, and has been lately at the 
point of death, cannot probably last a great 
while, perhaps we may have the fortune to 
be present at the election of a new one, 
when Rome will be in all its glor}^ Friday 
next we certainly begin our journey; in two 
days we shall come to the foot of the Alps, 
and six more we shall be in passing them. 
Even here the winter is begun; what then 
must it be among those vast snowy moun- 
tains where it is hardly ever summer? We 
are, however, as well armed as possible 
against the cold, with mulTs, hoods, and 
masks of beayer, fur-boots, and bear skins. 
When we arrive at Turin, we shall rest after 
the fatigues of the journey-. * * * 

XXVIII. 

TO HIS MOTHER. 

Turin, Nor. 7, N. S. 1739. 

T AM this night arrived here, and have just 



GRAY S LETTERS. (S 

sat down to rest me after eight days' tire- 
some journey: For the three first we had 
the same road we before passed through to 
go to Geneva; the fourth we turned out of 
it, and for that day and the next travelled 
rather among than upon the Alps; the way 
commonly running through a deep valley 
by the side of the river Arc, which works 
itself a passage, with great difficulty and a 
mighty noise, among vast quantities of rocks, 
that have rolled down from the mountaio 
tops. The winter was so far advanced, as 
in great measure to spoil the beauty of the 
prospect; however, there was still some- 
what line remaining amidst the savageness 
and horror of the place: The sixth we be- 
gan to go up several of thesd mountains; 
and as we were passing one, met with an odd 
accident enough: Mr. Walpole had a little 
fat black spaniel, that he was very fond of, 
which he sometimes used to set down, and 
let it run by the chaise side. We were at 
that time in a very rough road, not two 
yards broad at most; on one side was a 
great wood of pines, and on the other a vast 
precipice; it was noon-day, and the sun 
shone bright, when all of a sudden, from 
the wood-side, (which was as steep upwards 
as the other part was downwards) out rush- 



74 gray's letters. 

ed a great wolf, came close to the head of 
the horses, seized the dog by he throat, 
and rushed up the hill again with him in his 
mouth. This was done in less than a quar- 
ter of a minute; we all saw it, and yet the 
servants had not time to draw their pistols, 
or do any thing to save the dog. If he had 
not been there, and the creature had thought 
lit to lay hold of one of the horses; chaise, 
and we, and all must inevitably have tumbled 
above fifty fathoms perpendicular down the 
precipice. The seventh we came to Lane- 
bourgh, the last town in Savoy; it lies at the 
foot of the famous'Mount Cenis, which is so 
situated as to allow no room for any way 
but over the very top of it. Here the 
chaise was forced to be pulled to pieces, and 
the baggage and that to be carried by mules: 
We ourselves were wrapped up in oar furs, 
and seated upon a sort of matted chair witliout 
legs, which is carried upon poles in the man- 
ner of a bier, and so began to ascend by the 
help of eight men. It was six miles to the 
top, where a plain opens itself about as many 
more in breadth, covered perpetually with 
very deep snow, and in the midst of that a great 
lake of i]nfathoniable depth, from whence a 
river takes its rise, and tumbles over man- 
strous rocks quite down the other side of 



gray's letters. 75 

the mountain. The descent is six miles 
more, but infinitely more steep than the 
going up; and here the men perfectly flj 
down with you, stepping from stone to stone 
with incredible swiftness in places where 
none but they could go three paces without 
falling. The immensity of the precipices, 
the roaring of the river and torrents that 
run into it, the huge crags covered with ice 
and snow, and the clouds below you and 
about you, are objects it is impossible to 
conceive without seeing them; and though 
we had heard many strange descriptions of 
the scene, none of them at all came up to it. 
We were but five hours in performing the 
whole, from which you may judge of the 
rapidity of the men's motion. We are 
now got into Piedmont, and stopped a little 
while at La Ferriere, a small village about 
three quarters of the way down, but still 
among the clouds, where we began to hear 
a new language spoken round about us; at 
last we got quite down, went through the 
Pas de Suse, a narrow road among the Alps, 
defended by two fortresses, and lay at 
Bossolens: Next evening, through a fine 
avenue of nine miles in length, as straight 
as a line, we arrived at this city, which, as 
you know, is the capital of the principality, 



76 gray's letters. 

and the residence of the king of Sardinia.*** 
We shall stay here, I believe, a fortnight, 
and proceed for Genoa, which is three or 
four days' journey, to go post. 

I am, kc. 



XXIX. 

TO MR. WEST. 

Turin, Nov. 16, N. S. 1739. 

After eight days' journey through Green- 
land, we arrived at Turin — you approach 
it by a handsome avenue of nine .miles long, 
and quite straight. The entrance is guard- 
ed by certain vigilant dragons, called Dou- 
aniers, who mumbled us for some time. 
The city is not large, as being a place 
of strength, and consequently contined 
within its fortifications; it has many beau- 
ties and some faults; among the tirst 
are streets all laid out by the line, regu- 

*** That part of the letter here omitted, contained only a de- 
scription of the city; which, as Mr. Gray has given it to Mr. 
West in the following letter, and that in a more lively man, 
ner, I thought it unnecessurv to insert ; a liberty I have taken 
in other parts of this correspondence, in order to avoid repe- 
titions. 



GRAY S LETTERS. 7/ 

lar uniform buildings, fine walks that sur- 
round the whole, and in general a good live- 
ly clean appearance: but the houses are of 
brick, plastered, which is apt to want re- 
pairing; the windows of oiled paper, which 
is apt to be torn; and every thing very 
slight, whicn is apt to tumble down. There 
is an excellent opera, but it is only in the 
carnival: Balls every night, but only in the 
carnival: Masquerades too, but only in the 
carnival. This carnival lasts only from 
Christmas to Lent; one half of the remain- 
ing part of the year is passed in remember- 
ing the last, the other in expecting the future 
carnival. We cannot well subsist upon such 
slender diet, no more than upon an execra- 
ble Italian comedy, and a puppet show, 
called Rappresentazione d'un' anima dannata, 
which, I think, are all the present diversions 
of the place; except the Marquise de Ca- 
vaillac's conversazione, where one goes to 
see people play at ombre and taroc, a game 
with 72 cards all painted with suns, .and 
moons, and devils, and monks. Mr. Wal- 
})ole has been at court; the family are at 
present at a country pahice, called La Vene- 
rie. The palace here in town is the very 
quintessence of gilding and looking glass; in- 
laid floors, carved panels, and painting, 



78 gray's letters. 

wherever they could stick a brush. I own 
1 have not, as yet, any where met with tiiose 
grand and simple works of art, that are to 
amaze one, and whose sight one is to be the 
better for: But those of nature have aston- 
ished me beyond expression. In our little 
journey up to the Grande Chartreuse, I do 
not remember to have gone ten pares with- 
out an exclamation, that there was no re- 
straining. Not a precipice, not a torrent, not 
a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and 
poetry. There are certain scenes that 
would awe an atheist into belief, without 
the help of other argument One need not 
have a very fantastic imagination to see 
spirits there at noon day: You have death 
perpetually before your eyes; only so far 
removed, as to compose the mind without 
frighting it. I am well persuaded St. Bruno 
was a man of no common genius, to choose 
such a situation for his retirement; and per- 
haps should have been a disciple of his, had 
I been born in his time. You may believe 
Abelard and Heloise were not forgot upon 
this occasion: If I do not mistake, I saw you 
too every now and then at a distance among 
the trees; il me semble, que j'ai vu ce chien 
de visage la quelquo purt. You seemed to call 
to me from the other side of the precipice. 



** gray's letters. 70 

but the noise of the river below was so 
great, that I really could not distinguish 
what you said; it seemed to have a cadence 
like verse. In your next you will be so 
good to let me know what it was The 
week we have since passed among the Alps, 
has not equalled the single day upon that 
mountam, because the winter was rather 
too far advanced, and* the weather a little 
foggy. However, it did not want its beau- 
ties; the savage rudeness of the view is in- 
conceivable without seeing it: I reckoned, 
in one day, thirteen cascades, the least of 
which was, I dare say, one hundred feet in 
height. I had Livy in the chaise with me, 
and beheld his "Nives coelo prope immis- 
tae, tecta informia imposita jupibus, pecora 
jumentaque torrida frigore, homines intonsi 
et inculti, animalia inanimaque omnia rigentia 
gelu; omnia confragosa, praeruptaque."" The 
creatures that inhabit them are, in all res- 
pects, below humanity; and most of them, es- 
pecially women, have the tumidum guttur, 
which they call goscia. Mont Cenis, I con- 
fess, carries the permission mountains have 
of being frightful rather too far; and its hor- 
rors were accompanied with too munh dan- 
ger to give one time to reflect upon their 
beauties. There is a family of the Alpine 



80 GRAY S LETTERS. 

monsters I have mentioned, upon its very 
top, that in the middle of winter calmly lay 
in their stock of provisions and firing, and 
so are buried in their hut for a month or 
two under the snow. V/hen vve were down 
it, and got a little way into Piedmont, we 
began to find " Apricos quosdam colles, 
rivosque prope silvas, et jam humano cultu 
digniora loca."" I r^d Silius Italicus too, 
for the first time ; and wished for you, ac- 
cording to custom. — V/e set oat for Genoa 
in two days' time. 



XXX. 

TO MR. WEST. 

Genoa, Nov. 21, 1739. 
HoiTnlos tractus, Boreasque linquens 
Regna Tauriuj fera,molliorem 
Adveaor brumain, Geuuaequt amantes 

Litoi-a soles. 

At least, if they do not, they have a very 
ill taste ; for I never beheld any tiling more 
amiable: Only figure to yourself a vast 
semicircular basin, full of fine blje sea, and 
vessels of all sorts and sizes, some sailing 
out, some coming in, and others at anchor ; 



qray's letters. 81 

and all round it palaces and churches peep- 
ing over one another's heads, gardens, and 
marble terraces lull of orange and cypress 
trees, fountains, and trellis-works covered 
with vines, which altogether compose the 
grandest of theatres. — This is the first coup 
d'ceil, and is almost all I am yet able to 
give you an account of, for we arrived late 
last night. To-day was, luckily, a great 
festival, and in the morning we resorted to 
the church of the Madonna delle Vigne, to 
put up our little orisons ; (1 believe I forgot 
to tell you, that we have been sometime 
converts to the holy catholic church) : we 
found our lady richly dressed out, with a 
crovvn of diamonds on her own head, another 
upon the child's, and a constellation of wax 
lights burning before them : Shortly after 
came the doge, in his robes of crimson dam- 
ask, and a cap of the same, followed by the 
senate in black. Upon his approach, began 
a fine concert of music, and among the rest 
two eunuchs' voices that were a perfect 
feast to ears that had heard nothing but 
French operas for a year. We listened to 
this, and breathed nothing but incense fcr 
two hours The doge is a very tall, lean, 
stately, old figure, called Constantino Balbi ; 
and the senate seem to have been made 

VOL. IV. 6 



82 gray's letters. 

upon the same model. — They said their 
prayers, and heard an absurd white friar 
preach, with equal devotion. After this 
we went to the Annonciata, a church built 
by the family Lomellini, and belonging to 
it ; which is, indeed, a most stately struc- 
ture ; the inside wholly marble of various 
kinds, except where gold and painting take 
its place. — From hence to the Palazzo 
Doria. I should make you sick of marble, 
if I told you how it was lavished here upon 
the porticoes, the ballustrades, and terraces, 
the lowest of which extends quite to the 
sea. The inside is by no means answerable 
to the outward magnificence ; the furniture 
seems to be as old as the founder of the fami- 
ly.* Their great embossed silver tables 
tell you, in bas-relief, his victories at sea ; 
how he entertained the emperor Charles, 
and how he refused the sovereignty of the 
commonwealth when it was offered him ; 
the rest is old-fashioned velvet chairs, and 
Gothic tapestry. The rest of the day has 
been spent, much to our hearts'* content, in 
cursing French music and architecture, and 
in singing the praises of Italy. We find 
this place so very fine, that we are in fear 

* The famout Andrea Doria. 



gray's letters. 83 

of finding nothing finer. — We are fallen in 
love with the Mediterranean sea, and hold 
your lakes and your rivers in vast contempt. 
This is 

" The happy country where huge lemons grow," 

as Waller says ; and I am sorry to think of 
leaving it in a week for Parma, although it 
be 

The happy country where huge cheeses grow. 



XXXI. 

TO HIS MOTHER. 

Bologna, Dec. 9, N. S. 1739. 

Our journey hither has taken up much less 
time than I expected. We lelt Genoa (a 
charming place, and one that deserved a 
longer stay) the week before last ; crossed 
the mountains, and lay that night at Torto- 
na, the next at St. Giovanni, and the morn- 
ing after came to Piacenza. That city, 
(though the capital of a duchy) made so 
frippery an appearance, that instead of 
spending some days there, as had been in- 
tended, we only dined, and went on to 



84 GRAy'jJ LETTERS, 

Parma ; stayed there all the following day, 
which was passed in visiting the famous 
works of Corregio in the Dome, and other 
churches. — The tine gallery of pictures, 
that once belonged to the dukes of Parma, 
is no more here ; the king of Naples has 
carried it all thither, and the city had not 
merit enough to detain us any longer, so we 
proceeded through Reggio to Modena ; this, 
though the residence of its duke, is an ill- 
built melancholy place, all of brick, as are 
most of the towns in this part of Lombardy : 
He himself lives in a private m^inner, with 
very little appearance of a court about him ; 
he has one of tiie noblest collections of 
paintings in the world, which entertained us 
extremely well the rest of that day and a 
part of the next ; and in the afternoon we 
came to Bologna : so now you may wish us 
joy of being in the dominions of his Holi- 
ness, This is a populqius city, and of great 
extent : All the streets have porticoes on 
both sides, such as surround a part of 
Covent-Garden, a great relief in summer- 
time in such a climate ; and from one of the 
principal gates to a church of the Virgin, 
(where is a wonder-working picture, at 
three miles distance) runs a corridor of the 
same sort, lately finished, and, indeed, 



GRAY S LETTERS. 85 

a most extraordinary performance. The 
churches here are more remarkable for 
their paintings than architecture, being most- 
ly old structures of brick ; but the palaces 
are numerous, and fine enough to supply us 
with somewhat worth seeing from morn- 
ing till night. The country of Lombardy, 
hitherto, is one of the most beautiful imagi- 
nable ; the roads broad, a^ld exactly straight, 
and on either hand vast plantations of trees, 
chiefly mulberries and olives, and not a tree 
without a vine twining about it and spread- 
ing among its branches. This scene, in- 
deed, whicli must be the most lovely in the 
world during the proper season, is at pre- 
sent all deformed by the winter, which here 
is rigorous enough for the time it lasts ; but 
one still sees the skeleton of a charming 
place, and reaps the benefit of its product ; 
for the fruits and provisions are admirable : 
in short, you find every thing that luxury 
can desire, in perfection. We have now 
been here a week, and shall stay some little 
time longer. We are at the foot of the 
Apennine mountains ; it will take up tbrefe 
days to cross them, and then we shall come 
to Florence, where we shall pass the Christ- 
mas. Till then we must remain in a state 
of ignorance as to what is doing in England, 



CRAY S LETTERS. 



for our letters are to meet us there : If I do 
not find four or five from you alone, 1 shall 
wonder. 



XXXII. 

TO HIS' MOTHER. 

Florence, Dec. 19, N. S. 1739. 

We spent twelve days at Bologna, chiefly 
(as most travellers do) in seeing sights ; for 
as we knew no mortal there, and as it is no 
easy matter to get admission into any Italian 
house, without very particular recommenda- 
tions, we could see no company but in pub- 
lic places ; and there are none in that city 
but the churches. We saw, therefore, 
churches, palaces, and pictures from morn- 
ing to night ; and the 15th of this month set 
out for Florence, and began to cross the 
Apennine mountains ; we travelled among 
and upon them all that day, and, as it vv^as 
but indifferent weather, were commonly in 
the middle of thick clouds, that utterly de- 
prived us of a siglit of their beauties : For 
this vast chain of hills has its beauties, and 
all the valleys are cultivated ; even the 
mountains themselves are manv of them so 



gray's letters. 87 

within a little of their very tops. They are 
not so horrid as the Alps, though pretty 
near as high ; and the whole road is admira' 
bly well kept, and paved throughout, which 
is a length of fourscore miles, and more. - 
We left the pope's dominions, and lay that 
night in those of the grand duke of Fioren- 
zuola, a paltry little town, at the foot of 
mount Giogo, which is the highest of them 
all* Next morning we went up it ; the post- 
house is upon its very top, and usually in- 
volved in clouds, or half-buried in the snow. 
Indeed there was none of the last at the 
time we were there, but it was still a dis- 
mal habitation. The descent is most ex- 
cessively steep, and the turnings very short 
and frequent ; however, we performed it 
without any danger, and in coming down 
could dimly <liscover Florence, and the 
beautiful plain about it, through the mists ; 
but enough to convince us, it must begone 
of the noblest pro«;pects upon earth in sum- 
mer. That afternoon we got thither : and 
Mr. Mann,^ the resident, had sent his ser- 
vant to meet us at the gates, and conduct us 
to his house. He is the best and most 
obliging person in the world. The next 

* Afterwards Sir Horace Mann. 



88 gray's letters. 

night we were introduced at the prince of 
Craon's assembly (he has the chief power 
here in the grand duke's absence.) — The 
princess, and he, were extremely civil to 
the name of AVaipole, so we were asked to 
stay supper, which is as much as to say, 
you may come and sup here whenever you 
please; for after the first invitation this is 
always understood. We have also been at 
the countess Suarcz's, a favourite of the 
late duke, and one that gives the first move- 
ment to every thing gay that is going for- 
ward here. The news is every day ex- 
pected from Vienna of the great duchess's 
delivery; if it be a boy, here will be all sorts 
of balls, masquerades, operas, and illumina- 
tions; if not, we must wait for the carnival, 
when all those things come of course. In 
the mean time, it is impossible to want en- 
tertainment; the famous gallery, alone, is an 
amusement for months: we commonly pass 
two or three hours every morning in it, 
and one has perfect leisure to consider all 
its beauties. Yon know it contains many 
hundred antique staiuos, such as the whole 
world cannot match, besides the vast collec- 
tion of paintings, medals, and precious stones, 
such as no other prince was ever master of; 
in Fhort, all that the rich and powerful 



gray's letters. 89 

house of Medicis has in so many years 2:ot 
together.* And besides this city abounds 
with so many palaces and churches, that you 
can hardly place yourself any where with- 
out having some fine one in view, or at 
least some statue or fountain, magnificently 
adorned; these crndoubtedly are far more 
numerous than Genoa can pretend to; yet. 
in its general appearance, I cannot think 
that Florence equals it in beauty. Mr. Wal- 
pole is just come from being presented to 
the electress palatine dowager; she is a sis- 
ter of the late great duke's; a stately old 
lady, that never goes out but to church, and 
then she has guards, and eight horses to her 
coach. She received him with much cere- 
mony, standing under a huge black canopy, 
and, after a few minutes' talking, she assur- 
ed hiai of her good will, and dismissed him: 
She never sees any body but thus in form; 
and so she passes her life, tpoor woman! * * * 

* He catalogfued and made occasional short remarks on the picr 
iures, &:c. which he saw hei-Cj as weU as at other places, many of 
which are in my possession, but it would have swelled this work 
too much if I had inserted them. 

t Persons of vei7 hio;h rank, and withal Tery good scEse, will 
only fuel the pathos of t!iis exdaroation. 



90 gray's letters, 

XXXIIL 

TO MR. WEST. 

Florence, Jan. 15, 1740. 

I THINK I have not yet told }ou how we left 
that charming place Genoa; how we crossed 
a mountain all of green marble, called 
Buchetto; how we came to Tortona, and 
waded through the mud to come to Castel 
St. Giovanni, and there eat mustard and 
sugar with a dish of crows' gizzards : Se- 
condly, how we passed the famous plains 

Qua Trebie glaucas salices intersccat uiida, 

Arvaqvu Romanis nobilitata inalis. 
Visus adhuc aninis veteri de clade rubere, 

Et suspirantts ducere mcestus aquas ; 
Mauroruraque ala, et nigi'ae increbrescere turmse, 

Et pulsa Ausonidum lipa soiiare fuga. 

Nor, thirdly, how we passed through Pia- 
cenza, Parma, Modena, entered the territo- 
ries of the pope; stayed twelve days at 
Bologna; crossed the Apennines, and after- 
wards arrived at Florence. Ts^one of these 
things have 1 told you, nor do I intend to tell 
you, till you ask me some questions concern- 
ing them. No not even of Florence itself, 



gray's letters. 91 

except that it is as fine as possible, and has 
ever}' thing in it tbat can bless the eyes. 
But, before I enter into particulars, you must 
make your peace both with me and the 
Venus de Medicis, who, let u>e tell you, is 
highly and justly offended at you for not in- 
quiring, long l3efore this, concerning her 
symmetry and proportions. * * * 



XXXIV. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

ELEGIA.* 

IRvgo des'idiae videov tibi crimine dignus ; 

Et rnerito : victas do tibi spoiiic manus. 
Arguor et veteres nimium contemuere Musas, 

Irata et nobis est Medicsea Venus. 
Mene iffitur statuas et inania saxa vereri ! 

Stultule ! marmorea quid raihi cum Venere ? 
Hie verae, liic vivae Venei'es, et niille per urbem, 

Quaruin nulla queat non placuisse Jovi. 
Cedite Romanse fonuosae, et eedite Graiae, 

Sintq'ic oiiiita Helenae nomeu et H rmionae ! 
Et, quascimque lefert setas vttus, Heroinae : 

Unus honor nostris jam venit Angliasin. 
Oh quales vultus, OIi quantum nunien ocellis ! 

* The letter which accompanied this little el'^gy is not extauc 
Probably it was only enclosed in one to Mr. Walpole. 



92 gray's letters. 

I nunc et Tuscas improbe confer opes. 
Ne tamen haec obtusa niniis prsecordia credas, 

Neu me adeo nulla Pallade progonitum : 
Testoi- Pieridumque uinbi-as et fluraina Pindi, 

Me quoque Calliopes semper amasse chores ; 
Et dudum Ausonias urbes, et visere Graias 

Cura est, ingenio si licet ire meo : 
Sive est Phidiacum niarmor, seu Mentoris aera, 

Seu paries Coo nobilis e calamo ; 
Nee minus artificum magna argumenta recentum 

Romanique decus nominis et Veneti : 
Qua Furor et Mavors et ssevo in nianiiore vultus, 

Quaque et formoso mollior sere Venus ; 
Quaque loquax spirat fucus, vivique labores, 

Et quicquid calamo dulcius ausa manus : 
Hie nemora, et sola moerens Melibceus in umbra, 

Lymphaque muscoso prosiliens lapide ; 
Illic majus opus, faciesque in pariete major 

Exsurgens, Divum et numina Ccelicolum. 
O vos felices, quibus hajc cognoscere fas est, 

Et tota Italia, qua patet usque, frui .' 
Nulla dies vobis eat injucunda, nee usquam 

Noritis quid sit tempora amara pati. 



XXXV. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



Florence, aiarch 19, 1740. 

The pope^ is at last dead, and we are to set 
out for Rome on Monday next. The con- 

* Clement the Twkslfth. 



gray's letters. 93 

clave is still sitting there, and likely to con- 
tinue so soaie timo longer, as the two French 
cardinals are but just arrived, and the Ger- 
man ones are still expected. It agrees 
mighty ill with those that remain enclosed: 
Ottoboni is already dead of an apoplexy; 
Altieri and sever^ others are said to be 
dying, or very bad: yet it is not expected to 
break up till after Easter. We shall lie at 
Sienna the first night, spend a day there, 
and in two more get to Rome. One begins 
to see in this country the first promises of 
an Italian spring, clear unclouded skies, and 
warm suns, such as are not often felt in 
England; yet, for your sake, I hope at pre- 
sent you have your proportion of them, and 
that ail your frosts, and snows, and short- 
breaths are, by this time, utterly vanished. 
i have nothing new or particular to inform 
you of; and, if you see things at home go on 
much in their old course, you must not ima- 
gine them more various abroad. The di- 
versions of a Florentine Lent are composed 
of a sermon in the morning, full of hell and 
the devil; a dinner at noon, full of fish and 
meager diet; and, in the evening, what is 
called a conversazione, a sort of assembly at 
the principal people's houses, full of i can- 
not tell what: Besides this, there is twice a 
week a very grand concert. * * * 



94 gray's letters. 



XXXVI. 

TO HIS MOTHER. 

Rome, April 2, N, S. 1740. 

This is the third day since we came to 
Rome, but the first hour I have had to write 
to you in. The journe}? from Florence 
cost us four da}'s, one of which was spent at 
Sienna, an agreeable, clean, old city, of no 
great magnificence or extent; but in a fine 
situation, and good air. What it has most 
considerable is its cathedral a huge pile of 
marble, black and white laid alternately, and 
laboured with a Gothic niceness and delicacy 
in the old-fashioned way. Within too are 
some paintings and sculpture of considerable 
hands. The sight of this, and some collec- 
tions that were showed us in private houses, 
were a sufficient employment for the little 
time we were to pass there; and the next 
morning we set forward on our journey: 
through a country very oddly composed; 
for some miles you have a continual scene of 
little mountains cultivated from top to bot- 
tom with rows of olive trees, or else elms, 
each of which has its vine twining about it, 
and mixing with the branches; and corn 



gray's letters. 95 

sown between all the ranks. This, diversi- 
tiecl with numerous small houses and con- 
vents, makes the most agreeable pros})ect in 
the world: But, all of a sudden, it alters to 
black barren hills, as far as the eye cau 
reach, that seem never to have been capa- 
ble of culture, and are as uglj as useless. 
Such is the country for some time before one 
comes to Mount Radicofani, a terrible hi tck 
hill, on the top of which we were to lodge 
that night. It is very hia;h, and difficult of 
ascent; and at the foot of it we were much 
embarrassed by the fall of one of the poor 
horses that drew us. This accident obliged 
another chaise, which was coming down, to 
stop also; and out of it peeped a figure in a 
red cloak, with a nandkerchief tied round its 
head, which, by its voice and mien, seemed 
a fit old woman; but upon its getting out, 
appeared to be Senesino, who was returning 
from Naples to Sienna, the place of his 
birth and residence. On the highest part 
of the mountain is an old fortress, and near 
it a house built by one of the grand dukes 
for a hunting-seat, but now converted into 
an inn: It is the shell of a large fabric, but 
such an inside, such chambers, and accom- 
modations, that your cellar is a palace in 
comparison; and your cat sups and lies much 



96 

better than we did; for, it beinga saint's eve, 
there was nothing but eggs. We devoured 
our meager fare; and, after stopping up the 
windows with the quilts, were obliged to lie 
upon the straw beds in our clothes. Such 
are the conveniences in a road, that is, as it 
were, the great thoroughfare of all the world. 
Just on the otiier side of this mountain, at 
Ponte Centino, one enters the patrimony of the 
church; a most delicious country, but thinly 
inhabited. That night brought us to Viterbo, 
a city of a more lively appearance than any 
we had lately met with; the houses have 
glass windows, which is not very usual here; 
and most of the streets are terminated by a 
handsome fountain. Here we had the 
pleasure of breaking our fast on the leg of 
an old hare and some broiled crows. Next 
morning, in descending Mount Viterbo, we 
lirst discovered (though at near thirty miles 
distance) the cupola of St. Peter's, and a 
little after began to enter on an old Roman 
pavement, with now and then a ruined tower, 
or a sepulchre on each hand. We now had 
a clear view of the city, though not to the 
best advantage, as coming along a plain 
quite upon a level with it; however, it ap- 
peared very vast, and surrounded with mag- 
nificent villas and gardens. We soon after 



gray's letters. 97 

crossed the Tiber, a river that ancient Rome 
made more considerable than any oierit of 
its own could have done: However, it is not 
contemptibly small, but a good handsome 
stream; very deep, yet somewhat of a muddy 
complexion. The lirst entrance of Rome is 
prodigiously striking. It is by a noble gate, 
designed by Michael Angelo, and adorned 
with statues; this brings you into a large 
square, in the midst of which is a vast obe- 
lisk of granite, ani in front you have at one 
view two churches of a handsome architec- 
ture, and so much ahke, that they are called 
the Twins; with three streets, the middle- 
most of which is one of the longest in Rome, 
As high as my expectation was raised, I con- 
fess, the magnificence of this city infinitely 
surpasses it. You cannot pass along a 
street, but you have views of some palace, 
or church", or square, or fountain, the most 
picturesque and noble one can imagine. 
We have not yet set about considering its 
beauties, ancient and modern, with atten- 
tion; but have already taken a slight tran- 
sient view of some of the most remarkable. 
St. Peter's I saw the day after we arrived, 
and was struck dumb with wonder. I there 
saw the cardinal D'Auvergne, one of the 
French ones, who, upon coming offhis jour- 

VOL. IV. 7 



98 grab's letters^ 

ney, immediately repaired hither to offer up 
his vows at the high altar, and went directly 
into the conclave; the doors of which we 
saw opened to him, and all the other im- 
mured cardinals came thither to receive him. 
Upon his entrance they were closed again 
directly. It is supposed they will not come 
to an agreement about a pope till after 
Easter, though the confinement is very disa- 
greable. 1 have hardly philosophy enough 
to see the infinity of fine things, that are 
here daily in the power of any body that 
has money, without regretting the want of it; 
but custom has the power of making things 
easy to one. I have not yet seen his majes- 
ty of Great Britain, &;c. though I have the 
two boys in the gardens of the Villa Bor- 
gese, where they go a-shooting almost every 
day; it was at a distance, indeed, for we did 
not choose to meet them, as you may ima- 
gine. This letter (like all those the Eng- 
lish send, or receive) will pass through the 
hands of that family, before it comes to those 
it was intended for. They do it more 
honour than it deserves; and all they will 
learn from thence will be, that 1 desire you 
to give my duty to my father, and wherever 
else it is due, and that I am, &c. 



gray's letters. 99 

XXXVII. 

TO HIS MOTHER. 

Rome, April 15, 1740. Good-Fi'iday. 

To-day I am just come from pa^'ing my 
adoration at St. Peter's to three extraordi- 
nary relics which are exposed to public 
view only on these two days in the whole 
year, at which time all the confraternities in 
the city come in procession to see them. It 
was something extremely novel to see that 
vast church, and the most magnificent in the 
world, undoubtedly, illuminated (for it was 
night) by thousands of little crystal lamps, 
disposed in the figure of a huge cross at the 
high altar, and seeming to hang alone in the 
air. All the light proceeded from this, and 
had the most singular efi'ect imaginable as 
one entered the great door. Soon after 
came one after another, I believe, thirty 
processions, all dressed in linen frocks, and 
girt with a cord, their heads covered 
with a cowl all over, only two holes to see 
through left. Some of them were all black, 
others red, others white, others party- 
coloured; these were continually coming 
and going with their tapers and crucifixes be- 



100 

fore them; and to each company, as they ar- 
rived and knelt before the great altar, were 
shown from a balcony, at a great height, the 
three wonders, which are, you must know, 
the head of the spear that wounded Christ; 
St. Veronica's handkercliief, with the mira- 
culous impression of his face upon it: and a 
piece of the true cross, on the sight of 
which the people thump their breasts, and 
kiss the pavement with vast devotion. The 
tragical part of the ceremony is half a dozen 
wretched creatures, who, with their faces 
covered, but naked to the waist, are in a 
side-chapel disciplining themselves with 
scourges full of iron prickles; but really in 
earnest, as our eyes can testify, which saw 
their backs and arms so raw, we should have 
taken it for a red satin doublet torn, and 
showing the skin through, had we not been 
convinced of the contrary by the blood 
which was plentifully sprinkled about them. 
It is late; I give j/ou joy of Porto-Bello, 
and many other things, which I hope are 
all true. * * * 



gray's letters. 101 



XXXVIII. 



TO MR. WEST. 



Tivoli, May 20, 1740. 

This day being in the palace of his high- 
ness the duke of Modena, he laid his most 
serene commands upon me to write to Mr. 
West, and said he thought it for his gVory, 
that I should draw up an inventory of all 
his most serene possessions for the said 

West's perusal. Imprimis, a house, being 

in circumference a quarter of a mile, two 
feet and an inch; the said house containing 
the following particulars, to wit, a great 
room. Item, another great room; item, a 
bigger room; item, another room; item, a 
vast room; item, a sixth of the same; a se- 
venth ditto; an eighth as before; a ninth as 
abovesaid; a tenth (See No. 1.); item, ten 
more such, besides twenty besides, which, 
not to be too particular, we shall pass over. 
The said rooms contain nine chairs, two 
tables, five stools, and a cricket. From 
whence we shall proceed to the garden, con- 
taining two millions of superfine laurel hedg- 
es, a clump of cypress trees, and half the 
river Teverone, that pisses into two thoU' 



102 gray's letters. 

sand several chamberpots. Finis. Dame 

Nature desired me to put in a list of her lit- 
tle goods and chattels, and, as they were 
small, to be very minute about them. She 
has built here three or four little mountains, 
and laid them out in an irregular semicircle; 
from certain others behind, at a greater dis- 
tance, she has drawn a canal, into which she 
has put a little river of hers, called Anio; she 
has cut a huge cleft between the two inner- 
most of her four hills, and there she has left it 
to its own disposal; which she has no soon- 
er done, but, like a heedless chit, it tumbles 
headlong down a declivity fifty feet perpen- 
dicular, breaks itself all to shatters, and is 
converted into a shower of rain, where the 
sun forms many a bow, red, green, blue, and 
yellow. To get out of our metaphors with- 
out any further trouble, it is the most noble 
sight in the world. The weight of that quan- 
tity of waters, and the force they fall with, 
have worn the rocks they throw themselves 
among into a thousand irregular crags, and to 
a vast depth. In this channel it goes boiling 
along with a mighty noise till it comes to 
another steep, where you see it a second 
time come roaring down (but first you must 
walk two miles farther) a greater height 
than before, but not with that quantity of 



gray's letters. 103 

waters; for by this time it has divided itself, 
being crossed and opposed by the rocks, into 
four several streams, each of which, in emu- 
lation of the great one, will tumble down 
too; and it does tumble down, but not from 
an equally elevated place; so that you have 
at one view all these cascades intermixed 
with gro\es of olive and little woods, the 
mountains rising behind them, and on the 
top of one (that which forms the extremity 
of one of the half-circle's horns) is seated 
the town itself. At the very extremity of 
that extremity, on the brink of the precipice, 
stands the Sybil's temple, the remains of a 
little rotunda, surrounded with its portico, 
above half of whose beautiful Corinthian 
pillars are still standing and entire; all this 
on one hand. On the other, the open 
Campagna of Rome, here and there a little 
castle on a hillock, and the city itself on 
the very brink of the horizon, indistinctly 
seen (being 18 miles off) except the dome 
of St. Peter's; which, if you look out of 
your window, wherever you are, I sup- 
pose, you can see. I did not tell you that 
a little below the first fall, on the side of 
the rock, and hanging over that torrent, are 
little ruins which they show you for Horace'« 
house, a curious situation to obgerve the 



104 gray's letters. 

" Pi'aeceps Anio, et Tibumi lucus, et uda 
Mobil ibus pomaria rivis." 

Maecenas did not care for such a noise, it 
seems, and built him a house (which they 
also carry one to see) so situated that it sees 
nothing at all ofthe matter, and for any thing 
he knew there might be no such river in the 
world. Horace had another house on the 
other side of the Teyerone, opposite to 
Msecenas's; and they told us there was a 
bridge of communication, by which "andava 
il detto Signor per trastuUarsi coll istesso 
Orazio." In coming hither we crossed the 
Aquae Albulae, a vile little brook that stinks 
like a fury, and they say it has stunk so these 
thousand years. I forgot the Piscina of 
Quintilius Varus, where he used to keep 
certain little fishes. This is very entire, 
and there is a piece of the aqueduct that 
supplied it too; in the garden below is old 
Rome, built in little, just as it was, they say. 
There are seven temples in it, and no 
houses at all: They say there were none. 

May 21. 

We have had the pleasure of going twelve 
miles out of our way to Palestrina. It has 
rained all day as if heaven and us were com- 
ing together. See my honesty, 1 do not men- 



gray's letters. 105 

tion a syllable of the temple of Fortune, be- 
cause I really did not see it; which, I think, 
is pretty well for an old traveller. So we 
returned along the Via Praenestina, saw the 
Lacus Gabinus and Regillus, wherej you 
know. Castor and Pollux appeared upon a 
certain occasion. And many a good old 
tomb we left on each hand, and many an 
aqueduct, 

Dumb are whose fountains, and their channels di-y. 

There are, indeed, two whole modern ones, 
works of popes, that run about thirty miles 
a-piece in length; one of them conveys still 
the fnmous Aqua Virgo to Rome, 9nd adds 
vast beauty to the prospect. So we came to 
Rome again, where waited for us a splendi- 
dis^imo regalo of letters: in one of which 
came You, with your huge characters and 
wide intervals, staring. 1 would have you 
to know, I exp(^ct you should take a hand- 
some crow-quill when you write to me, and 
not leave room for a pin's point in four sides 
of a sheet royal. Do you but find matter, I 
will find spectacles. 

I have more time than I thought, and I 
will employ it in telling you about a ball that 
we were at the other evening. Figure to 



106 gray's letters. 

yourself a Roman villa; all its little apart- 
ments thrown open, and lighted up to the best 
advantage. At the upper epd of the gallery, 
a fine concert, in which La Diamantina, a 
famous virtuosa, played on the violin divine- 
ly, and sung angelically; Giovannino and 
Pasqualini (great names in musical story) 
also performed miraculously. On each side 
were ranged all the secular grand monde of 
Rome, the ambassadors, princesses, and all 
that. Among the rest II Serenissimo Pre- 
tendente (as the Mantova gazette calls him) 
displayed his rueful length of person, with 
his two young ones, and all his ministry 
around him. "Poi nacque un grazioso ballo,'- 
where the world danced, and 1 sat in a cor- 
ner regaling myself with iced fruits, and 
other pleasant rinfrescatives. 



XXXIX. 

TO MR. WEST, 



Rome, May, 1740. 



Mater rosarum, cui tenerse vigent 
Aurse Favoiii. cui Venus it comes 
Lasciva, Nynipharum choreis 
Et volucrur. celebrata cantu ! 
Die, non inertera fallei-e qua diem 
Araat sub nrabra, seu sinit auream 



gray's letters. 107 

Doi'inire plectrum, seu retentat 
Pierio Zephyrinus* antro 
Furore duici plenus, et immemor 
Reptantis inter frigora Tusculi 
Umhrosa, vel colles Aaiici 
Palladia: superaiitis Albse. 
Dilecta Fauno, et capriptdum chori's 
Pineta, tester vos, Anio minax 
Qusecunque per clivos volutus 
Prsecipiti tremefecit amne, 
lUius altuin Tibur, et Msii\x 
Audisse silvas nomen amabiles, 
Illius et gratas Latinis 

Naiasin iugeminasse rupes : 
Nam me Latinte Naiades uvida 
Videre ripa, qua niveas levi 
Tam saepe lavit i-ore plumas, 
Duice canens Venusiims ales; 
Mirura ! caiienti conticuit nemuj, 
Sacrique fontes, et retineut adhuc 
(Sic Musa jussit) saxa molles 
Docta modos, veteresque iauri. 
Mirare nee tu me citharaj rudem 
Claudis laborantem numcris ; loca 
Amcena, jucunduraque ver in- 
compositum docuere carmen : 
Haei'ent sub omni nam folio nigi'i 
Phoebea luci (credite) somnia, 
Ai-gutiusqae et lympha et aurae 
Nescio quid solito loquuntur- 



• He entitled this cliarming ode, " Ad C. Favonium Zephyii- 
num," aud writ it immediately after his journey to Fi-escati and 
the cascades of Tivoli, which he describes in the preceding letter. 



108 GRAY S LETTERS. 

I am to-day just returned from Alba, a 
good deal fatigued; for you know the Appian 
is somewhat tiresome.* We dined at Pom- 
pey's; he indeed was gone for a few days to 
his Tusculan, but, by the care of his villicus, 
we made an admirable meal. We had the 
dugs of a pregnant sow, a peacock, a dish of 
thrushes, a noble scarus, just fresh from the 
Tyrrhene, and some conchylia of the lake 
with garum sauce: for my part I never eat 
better at Lucullus's table. We drank half a 
dozen cyathi a-piece of ancient Alban to 
Pholoe's health; and, after bathing, and play- 
ing an hour at ball, we mounted our essedum 
again, and proceeded up the mount to the 
temple. The priests there entertained us 
with an account of a wonderful shower of 
birds' eggs, that had fallen two days before, 
which had no sooner touched the ground, 
but they were converted into gudgeons; as 
also that the night past a dreadful voice had 
been heard out of the adytum, which spoke 

* However whimsical this humour may appear to some readers, 
I chose to insert it, as it gives me an opportunity of remarking 
that Mr, Gray was extremely skilled in the customs of the ancien*^- 
Romans; and has catalogued, in his common-place book, thei 
various eatables, wines, perfumes, clothes, medicines, &c. with 
great pivcision, i*eferring under every article to passages in the 
poets wA historians where their names are meutioBed. 



gray's letters. 109 

Greek during a full half hour, but nobody 
understood it. But quitting my Kornanities, 
to your great joy and mine, let me teil you, 
in plain English, that we come from Albano. 
The present town lies within the enclosure 
of Pompey's villa in ruins. The Appian 
way runs through it, by the side of which, a 
little farther, is a large old tomb, with tive 
pyramids upon it, which the learned suppose 
to be the burying-place of the family, be- 
cause they do not know whose it can be else. 
But the vulgar assure you it is the sepulchre 
of the Curiatii, and by that name (such is 
their power) it goes. One drives to Castel 
Gondolfo, a house of the pope's, situated on 
the top of one of the Colhnette, that forms a 
brim to the basin, commoiily called the Al- 
ban lake. It is seven miles round; and di- 
rectly opposite to you, on the other side, 
rises the Mons Albanus, much taller than the 
rest, along whose side are still discoverable 
(not to corhmon eyes) certain little ruins of 
the old Alba Longa. They had need be very 
little, as having been nothing but ruins ever 
since the days of Tullus Hostilius. On its 
top is a house of the constable Colonna's, 
where stood the temple of Jupiter Latialis. 
At the foot of the hill Gondolfo, are the fa- 
mous outlets of the lake, built with hewn 



110 GRAY S LETTERS. 

stone, a mile and a half under ground. Livj, 
you know, amply informs us of the foolish oc- 
casion of this expense, and gives me this op- 
portunity of displaying all my erudition, that 
1 may appear considerable in your eyes. 
This is the prospect from one window of the 
palace. From another you have the whole 
campagna, the city, Antium, and the Tyr- 
rhene sea (twelve miles distant) so distin- 
guishable, that you may see the vessels sail- 
ing upon it. All this is charming. Mr. 
Wnlpole says, our memory sees more than 
our eyes in this country, which is extremely 
true; smce, for realities, Windsor, or Rich- 
mond Hill, is infinitely preferable to Albano 
or Fresrati. i am now at home, and going 
to the window to tell you it is the most beau- 
tif'il of Italian nights, which, in truth, are 
but just began, (so backward has the spring 
been here, and every where else, they say). 
There is a moon ! there are stars for you ! 
Do not you hear the fountain ? Do not you 
smell tiie orange flowers ? That building 
yonder is the convent of St. Isidore; and that 
eminence, with the cypress trees and pines 
upon it, the top of M. Quirinal. — This is all 
true, and yet my prospect is not two hun- 
dred yards in length. We send you some 
Roman inscriptions to entertain you. Th^ 



GRAV'S LETTER^. Ill 

iirst two are modern, transcribed from the 
Vatican library by Mr. Walpole. 

Pontifices olim quem fundavere priores, 

Prsecipua Sixtus perficit arte tholum ;• 
Et Sixti tantum se gloria tollit in aituni, 

Quantum se Sixti uobile tollit opus : 
Magnus honos magni fundaraina pouere templi, 

Sed finera coeptis ponere major houos . 

Saxa agit Amphion, Thebana ut moenia condat : 

Sixtus et immensse pondera molis agit.f 
Saxa trahunt ambo loiige diversa : sed arte 

Htee trahit Amphion ; Sixtus et arte trabit. 
At tantum exsuperat Direaeum Amphiona Sixtus, 

Quantum hie exsuperat csetera saxa lapis. 

Mine is ancient, and I think not less curi- 
ous. It is exactly transcribed from a sepul- 
chral marble at the villa Giustiniani. I put 
stops to it, when I understand it. 

DIs Manibus 

Claudiae, Pistes *" 

Priiii s Conjugi 
^ Optumse, Sanctae, 

Et Piae, Benemeritate« 

Non sequos, Parcae, statu istis stamina vitse, 
Tam bene compositos potuistis sede tenere. 



* Sixtus V. built the dome of St. Peter**, 
t He raised the obelisk in the great area. 



112 GRAY^S LETTERS. 

Amissa est coujux cur ego et ipse moror ? 

Si • bella • esse mi iste ' mea vivere debuit * 

Tristia contigerunt qui amissa conjugc vivo. 

Nil est tain miserum, quam totam ptixlere vitam. 

Nee vita enasci dura peregistis crudelia peasa. sorores, 

Ruptaqne deficiunt in primo munere fiisi. 

O iiiiiiis injustae ter donos dare niur.us in annos, 

Deceptus • gi-autus ■ fatura ' sic • pressit egestas • 

Dum vitaiu tulero, Primus Pistes lugea conjugium. 



XL. 



TO HIS MOTHER, 

Naples, June 17, 1740. 

Our journey hither was through the most 
beautiful part of the finest country in the 
world; and every spot of it, on some account 
or other, famous for these three thousand 
years past.* The season has hitherto been 
just as warm as one would wish it; no un- 
wholesome airs, or violent heats, yet heard 
of: The people call it a backward year, and 
are in pain about their corn, wine, and oil; 

• Mr. Gray wrote a minute description of every thing he saw in 
this tour from Rome to Naples ; as also of the environs of Rome, 
Florence, &c But as these papers are appaix^ntly only memoran- 
dums for his own use, I do not tliink it iitcessai'y to print them, 
although they abound with many uncommon remarks, and peili» 
nent classical quotations. 



GRAY*!? LETTERS. ] 13 

but ^ve, wlio are neither corn, wine, nor oil, 
liad it very agreeable. Our road was through 
V'ellGtri, Cisterna, Terracina, Capua, and 
Aversa, and so to Naples. The minute one 
I'^aves his holines^'s dominions, the face of 
things begins to change from wide unciiti- 
vated plains to olive groves and well tilled 
fields of corn, intermixed with ranks of elms, 
every one of which has its vine twining about 
it, and hanging in festoons between the rows 
from one tree to another. The great old 
fi::-trees, the oranges in full bloom, and myr- 
tles in every hedge, make one of the deli:^ht- 
fullest scenes you can conceive; besides that, 
the roads are wide, well-kept, and full of 
passengers, a sight I have not beheld this 
long time. My wonder still increased upon 
entering the city, which, I think, for number 
of people, outdoes both Paris and London. 
The streets are one continued market, and 
thronged with populace so much that a coach 
can hardly pass. The common sort are a 
jolly lively kind of animals, more industrious 
thaa Italians usually are ; they work till 
evening; then take their lute or guitar (for 
they all pla^;) and walk about the city, or 
upon the sea-shore with it, to enjoy the 
fresco. One sees their little brown children 
jumping about stark-naked, and the bigger 

VOL. IV. 8 



114 gray's LETTERS. 

ones dancing with castanets, while others 
play on the cymbal to them, lour maps 
wiii show you the situation of Naples; it is 
on the most lovely bay in the worUl, and one 
of the calmest seas: It has many other beau- 
ties besides those of nature. We have spent 
two days in visiting the remarkable places in 
the country round it, such as the bay of 
Baiae, and its remains of antiquity; the lake 
Avernus, and the Solflitara, Charon's grotto, 
kc. We have beea in the Sibyl's cave and 
many other strange holes under-ground (I 
only name them, because you may consult 
Sandys's travels); but the strangest hole I 
ever was in, has been to-day, at a place call- 
ed Portici, where his Sicilian Majesty has a 
country-seat. About a year ago, as they 
were digging, they discovered some parts of 
ancient buildings above thirty feet deep in 
the ground: curiosity led them on, and they 
have been digging ever since; the passage 
they have made, with all its turnings and 
windings, is now more than a mile long. As 
you walk, you see parts of an amphitheatre, 
many houses adorned with marble columns, 
and incrusted with the same ; the front of a 
temple, several arched vaults of rooms paint- 
ed in fresco. Some pieces of painting hav€ 
been taken out from hence, finer than any 



gray's LETTERS. 115 

thing of the kind before discovered, and 
with these the king has adorned his palace ; 
also a number of statues, medals, and gems ; 
and more are dug out every day. This is 
knoun to be a Roman town," that in the 
emperior Titus's time was overwhelmed by 
a furious eruption of Mount Vesuvius, which 
is hard by. — The wood and beams remain 
so perfect that you may see the grain ; but 
burnt to a coal, and dropping into dust upon 
the least touch. We were to-day at the 
f)ot of that mountain, which at present only 
smokes a little, where we saw the materials 
that fed the stream of tire, which about four 
years since ran down its side. We have but 
a few days longer to stay here ; too little in 
conscience for such a place. * * * 



XLI. 

TO HIS FATHER. 

Flarenoe, July 16, 1740. 

At my return to this cit}', the day before 
yesterday, I had the pleasure of finding 
yours dated June the 9th. The period ofour 

* It shoald seem, by the omission of its name, that it waj net 
•hen discovered to be Herculaoeum. 



116 gray's letters. 

voyages, at least towards the South, is come, 
as you wish. We have been at Naples, 
spent nine or ten days there, and returned 
to Rome, where finding no likelihood of a 
pope yet these three months, and quite 
wearied with the formal assemblies, and lit- 
tle society of that great city, Mr. Walpole 
determined to return hither to spend the 
summer, where he imagines he shall pass 
his time more agreeably, than in the tedious 
expectation of what, when it happens, will 
only be a great show. For my own part, I 
give up the thoughts of all tnat with but 
little regret ; but the city itself I do not part 
with so easily, which alone has amusements 
for whole years. However, I have passed 
through all that most people do, both an- 
cient and modern ; what that is you may 
see. better than 1 can tell you, in a thousand 
books. The conclave we left in greater 
uncertainty than ever ; the more than or- 
dinary liberty they enjoy there, and the 
unusual coolness of the season, makes 
the confinement less disagreeable to them 
than common, and, consequentljs' maintains 
them in their irresolution. There have 
been very high words, one or two (it is 
said) have come even to blows ; two more 
are dead within this last month, Cenci and 



gray's LETTERS. 117 

Portia ; the latter died distracted ; and we 
left another (Alfcieri) at the extremity : yet 
nobody dreams of an election till the latter 
end of September. All this gives great 
scandal to all good catholics, and every body 
talks very freely on the subject. The Pre- 
tender (whom you desire an account of) 1 
have^ had frequent opportunities of seeing 
at church, at the corso, and other jdaces ; 
but more particularly, and that for a wliole 
night, at a great ball given by count Patrizii 
to the prince and princess Craon, (who 
were come to Rome at that time, that he 
might receive from the hands of the empe- 
ror's minister there the order of the golden 
fleece) at which he and his two sons were 
present. They are good, line boys, espe- 
cially the younger, who has the more spirit 
of the two, and both danced incessantly all 
night long. For him, he is a thin ill-made 
man, extremely tall and awkward, of a most 
unpromising countenance, a good deal re- 
sembling king James the second, and has ex- 
tremely the air and look of an idiot, particu- 
larly when he laughs or prays. The first 
he does not often, the latter continually. 
He lives private enough with his little court 
about him, consisting of Lord Dunbar, who 
Kianages every thing, and two or three of 



118 gray'^s letters. 

the Preston Scotch lords, uho would be 
very glad to make their peace at home. 

We happened to be at Naples on Corpus 
Christi day, the greatest feast in the year, 
so had an opportunity of seeing their Sicilian 
majesties to advantage. The king walked 
in the grand procession, and the queen 
(being big with child) sat in a balcony. He 
followed the host to the church of St. Clara, 
where high mass was celebrated to a glori- 
ous concert of music. They are as ugly a 
little pair as one can see : she a pale girl, 
marked with the small pox ; and he a brown 
boy, with a thin face, a huge nose, and as 
ungain as possible. 

We are settled here with Mr. Mann, in a 
charming apartment ; the river Arno runs 
under our windows, which we can tish out 
of The sky is so serene, and the air so 
temperate, that one continues in the open 
air all night long in a slight night gown, 
without any danger ; and the marble bridge 
is the resort of every body, where ,they 
hear music, eat iced fruits, and sup by 
moonlight ; though as yet (the season being 
extremely backward every where) these 
amusements are not begun. Yon see we 
are now coming northward again, though in 
no great haste ; the Venetian and Milanese 



gray's letters. 119 

territories, nnd either Germany or the south 
of France (according to the turn the war 
mny take,) are all that remain for us, that 
we have not yet seen ; as to Loretto, and 
that part of Italy, we have given over all 
thoughts of it. 



XLII. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

Bond-street, June 5, 1740. 

I LIVED at the Temple till i was sick of it : 
I have just left it, and tind myself as much a 
lawyer as 1 was when I was in it. It is cer- 
tain, at least, I mav study the law here as 
well as I could there. My being in cham- 
bers did not signify to me a pinch of snutf. 
They tell me my father was a lawyer, and, 
as you know, emir»ent in the profession ; 
and such a circumstance muGi be of advan- 
tage to me. M}' uncle too makes some fig- 
ure in Westminster-hail ; and there's anoth- 
er advantage : then my grandfather's name 
would get rae many friends Is it not 
strange that a young fellow, that might enter 
the world with so many advantages^ will not 
know hij o'vn interest ? kc. &:c. What shall 



120 gray's letters. 

I say in answer to all this ? For money, I 
neither dote upon it nor despise it ; it is a 
necessary stuff enough. For ambition, I do 
not want that neither ; but it is not to sit 
upon a bench. In short, is it not a disa- 
greeable thing to force one's inclination, 
especially when one's young ? not to men- 
tion that one ought to have the strength of 
a Hercules to go through our common law ; 
which, I am afraid, I have not. Well ! but 
then, say they, if one profession does not 
suit you, you may choose another more to 
your inclination. Now I protest I do not 
3'et know my own inclination, and I believe, 
if that was to be my direction, I should 
never fix at all. There is no going by a 
weather-cock. I could say much more 
upon this subject ; but there is no talkinu: 
tete-atete cross the Alps. Oh, the folly of 
young men, that never know their own in- 
terest ! they never grow wise till they are 
ruined ! and then nobody pities them, nor 
helps tbem. Dear Gray ! consider me in 
the condition of one that has lived these two 
years without any person that he can speak 
freely to. I know it is very seldom that 
people trouble themselves with the senti- 
ments of those they converse with ; so they 
can chat about trifles, thev never care 



GRAV'S LETTEF.S. 121 

whether your henrt aches or no Are you 
one of these V.' I think not. But what right 
have I to ask you this question ? Have we 
known one another enough, that I should 
expect or demand sincerity frooi you ? Yes, 
Gray, I hope we liavo ; and I have not quite 
such a mean opinion of myself, as to think I 
do not deserve it But, signor, is it not 
time for me to ask something about your 
future intentions abroad ? Where do you 
])ropose going next ? An in Apuliam ? nam 
illo si adveneris, tanquam Ulysses, cognos- 
ces tuorum neminem. Vale. So Cicero 
prophesies^ in the end of one of his letters 
— and there 1 end. 

Yours, kc. 



XLllI. 

TO MR, WEST. 

Florence, July 16, 1740. 

Yqu do yourself and me justice, in imagin- 
ing that you merit, and that I am capable 
of sincerity. I have not a thought, or even 
a weakness, I desire to conceal from you ; 
and consequently on my side deserve to be 
treated with the same openness of heart. 



122 GRAY S LETTERS. 

My vanity perhaps might make me more 
reserved towards you, if you were one of 
the heroic race, superior to all human fail- 
ings ; but as mutual wants are the ties of 
general society, so are mutual weaknesses 
of private friendships, supposing them nriix- 
ed with some proportion of good qualities ; 
for where one may not sometimes biame, 
one does not much care ever to praise. 
All this has the air of an introduction design- 
ed to soften a very harsh reproof that is to 
follow ; but it is no such matter : I only 
meant to ask, Why did you change your 
lodjiing ? Was the air bad, or the situation 
melancholy ? If so, you are quite in the 
right. Only, is it not putting yourself a lit- 
tle out of the way of a people, with whom 
it seems necessary to keep up some sort of 
intercourse and conversation, though but lit- 
tle for your pleasure or entertainment (yet 
there are, I believe, such among them as 
might give you both,) as least for your in- 
formation in that study, which, when. 1 left 
you, you thought of applying to? for that 
there is a certain study necessary to be 
followed, if we mean to })e of any use in 
the world, 1 take for granted; disagreeable 
enough (as most necessities are,) but, I am 
afraid, unavoidable. Into how many bran- 



gray's letters. 123 

ches the studies are diviJcd in England, 
every body know^; and between that which 
you and I had pitcJ^ied upon, and the other 
two, it was impossible to balance long. Ex- 
amples show one that it is not absolutely ne- 
cessary to be ablockjiead to succeed in this 
profession. The labour is long, and the 
elements dry and unentertaiuing; nor was 
ever any body (especially those that after- 
wards mnd3 a tjgure in it) amused, or even 
not disgusted in the bt^ginning; yet, upon a 
further acquaintance, there is surely matter 
for curiosity and reflection. It is strange if, 
among all that huge mass of words, there 
be not somewhat intermixed for thought. 
Laws have been the result of long delibera- 
tion, and that not of dull men, but the con- 
trary; and have so close a connexion with 
history, naj', with pailosoph}' itself, that they 
must partake a little of what they are re- 
lated to so nearly. Besides, tell me, have 
you ever made the attempt? Was not you 
frighted merely with the distant prospect? 
Had the Gotliic character and bnlkiness of 
those volumes (a teiith part of which per- 
haps it wi'll bf no firther necessary to con- 
sult, than as one does a dictionary) no ill 
eftect upon your eye? Are you sure, if Coke 
had been printed by Elzevir, and bound io 



124 gjiay's letters. 

twenty neat pocket volumes, instead of one 
folio, Yon should never have taken him np 
for an hour, as you would a Tully, or drank 
your tea over him? I know how great an 
obstacle ill spirits are to resolution. Do you 
really think, if you rid ten miles every 
morning, in a week's time you should not 
entertain much stronger hopes of the chan- 
cellorship, and think it a much more proba- 
ble thing than you do at present? The 
advantages you mention are not nothing; 
our inclinations are more than we imagine 
in our own power; reason and resolution de- 
termine them, and support under many diffi- 
culties. To me there hardly appears to bf any 
medium between a public life and a private 
one; he who prefers the tirst, must put him- 
self in a way of being serviceable to the rest 
of mankind, if he has a mind to be of any con- 
sequence among them: nay, he must not 
refuse being in a certain degree even de- 
pendent upon some men who already are so. 
If he has the good fortune to light on such 
as will make no ill use of his humility, 
there is no shame in this: if not, bis ambi- 
tion ought to give place to a reasonable pride, 
and he should apply to the cultivation of his 
own mind those abilities which he has not 
been permitted to use for others' service. 



gray's letters. 125 

Such a private hnppiness (supposing a small 
competence of fortune) is almost always in 
every one's power, and the proper enjoy- 
ment of age, as the other is the employment 
of youth. You are yet young, have some 
advantaijes and opportunities, and an un- 
doubted capacity, which you have never yet 
put to the trial. Set apart a few hours, see 
how the tiist year will agr«?e with you, at 
the end of it you are still the master; if 
you change your mind, you will only have 
got the knowledge of a little somewhat 
that can do no hurt, or ♦ive you cause of re- 
pentance. If your inclination he not fixed 
upon any thing else, it is a symptom that 
you are not absolutely determined against 
this, and warns you not to mistake mere 
indolence for inability. I am sensible there 
is nothing stronger against what I would 
persuade you to, than my own practice; 
which may make you imagine I think not 
as f speak. Alas! it is not so; but I do not 
act what ! think, and I had rather be the 
object of your pity than that you should 
be that of mine; and, be assured, the ad- 
vantage I may receive from it, does not dimi- 
nish my concern in hearing you want some- 
body to converse with freely, whose advice 
might be of more weight, and always at hand. 



126 gray's letters. 

We have some time since come to (he 
southern period of our voyages; we spent 
about nine days at Naples. It is the largest 
and most populous city, as its environs are 
the most deliciously fertile country, of all 
Italy We sailed in the bay of Bais, sweated 
in the Solfatara, and died in the grotto del 
Cane, as all strangers do; saw the Corpus 
Christi procession, and the king and the 
queen, and the city underground (which is 
a wonder I reserve to tell you of another 
time) and so returned to Rome for another 
fortnight; left it (left Rome!) and came 
hither for the summer. You have seen an 
Epistle* to Mr. Ashton, that seems to me 
full of spirit and thought, and a good deal of 
poetic fire. I would know your opinion. 
Now I talk of verses, Mr. Walpole and 1 
have frequently wondered you should never 
mention a certain imitation of Spenser, pub- 
lished last year by a namesake! of yours, 
with which we are all enraptured and en- 
mar vailed. 

* The reader will find this among Mr. Walpole's Fugitive 
Piecei. 
t '' On the abuse of Travelling,** by Gilbot West. 



gray's letters. 127 

XLIV. 

TO KIS MOTHER. 

Florence, Aug. 21, N. S. 1740. 

It is some time since I hnve had the pleasure 
of writing to you, having been upon a little 
excursion cross the mountains to Bologna. 
We set out from hence at sunset, passed the 
Apennines by moonlight, travelling inces- 
santly till we came to Bologna at four in the 
afternoon next day. There we spent a 
week agreeably enough, and returned as we 
came. The day before yesterday arrived 
the news of a pope: and I have the mortifi- 
cation of being within four days' journey of 
Rome, and not seeing his coronation, the 
heats being violent, and the infectious air 
now at its height. We had an instance, 
the other day, that it is not only fancy. 
Two country fellows, strong men, and used 
to the country about Rome, having occasion 
to come from thence hither, and travelling 
on foot, as common with them, one died sud- 
denly on the road; the other got hither, but 
extremely weak, and in a manner stupid; he 
was carried to the hospital, but died in two 
days. So, between fear and laziness, we re- 



128 gray's letters. 

main here, and must be satisfied with the ac- 
counts other people give us of the matter. 
The new pope is called Benedict XIV. being 
created cardinal by Benedict XIII the last 
pope but one. His name is Lambertini, a 
noble Bolognese, and archbishop of that city. 
When I was fir^^t there, I remember to have 
jseen him two or three times; he is a short, 
fat man, about sixty-five years of age, of a 
hearty, merry countenance, and likely to 
live some years. He bears a good character 
for generosity, affability, and olber virt'ies; 
and, they say, wants neither l^r.owledge nor 
capacity. The worst side of him is, that he 
has a nephew or two; besides a certain 
young favourite, called Melara, who is said 
to have had, for some time, the arbitrary 
(Jisposal of his purse and family. He is re- 
ported to have made a little speech to the 
cardinals in the conclave, while they were 
undetermined about an election, as follows: 
"Most eminent lords, here are three Bolog- 
nese of different characters, but all equally 
proper for the popedom. If it be your 
pleasures to pitch upon a saint, there is car- 
dinal Gotti; if upon a politician, there is Al- 
drovandi; if upon a booby, here am I." 
The Italian is much more expressive, and, 
indeed, not to be translated; wherefore, if 



gray's letters. 129 

you meet with any body that understands it, 
you may show thera what he Sciid in the lan- 
guage he ppoke it. "Emin*^™^ ^'gt'*' Ci 
siame tre, diversi si, ma tutti idonei al Pa- 
pato. Se vi piace un Santo, c' e I'Gotti; se 
volete una testa scaltra, e Folitica, c' e TAl- 
drovande; se un CogUone, ecco mil" Car- 
dinal Coscia is restored to his liberty, and, it 
is said, will be to all his benetices. Corsini 
(the late pope's nephew) as he has had no 
hand in this election, it is hoped, will be 
called to account for all his villanous prac- 
tices. The Pretender, they say, has resign- 
ed all his pretensions to his eldest boy, and 
will accept of the grand chancellorship, which 
is thirty thousand crowns a-year; the pension 
he has at present is only twenty thousand. 
I do not affirm the truth of this li\st article; 
because, if he does, it is necessary he 
should take the ecclesiastical habit, and it 
will sound mighty odd to be called his ma- 
jesty the chancellor. — So ends my gazette. 

VOL. IV, 9 



130 gray's letters. 



XLV. 



TO MR. WEST. 



Florence, Sept. 25, N. S. 1740. 

What I send you now, hs long as it is, is bat a 
piece of a poem. It has the advantage of 
all fragments, to need neither introdiiciion 
nor conclusion: besides, if you do not like 
it, it is but imagining that which went before, 
and came after, to be intinitely better. Look 
in Sandys's Travels for the History of Monte 
Barbaro, and Monte Nuovo.* 



* To save the reader trouble, I here insert the passage referred 
to: " West «jf Cicero's Villa staiiils the eminent Gaurus, a «toHy 
and desolate mountain, in which there are divers obscure caverns, 
choaked almost with earth, where many have consumed much 
fruitless industry in searching for treasure. The famous Lucrine 
lake extended formerly from Avernus to the aforesaid Gaurus > 
but is now no other than a little sedgy plash, choaked up by the 
hon-ible find astonishing eruption of the new mountain ; whereof, 
as oft as 1 think. I am easy to credit whatsoever is wonderful. 
For who here knows not, or who elsewhere will believe, that a 
mountain "hould arise (,» rtly out of a !?.ke and partly out of the 
sea,) •:.■■ ono day aiul a night, unto such a height as to contend in 
altitude with the high iiLOuntans adjoining ? In the year of our 
Lord 1538, on tbt 39lh of -'eptembcr, when for certain days fore- 
going the country hei-eabout was so vexed with perpetual earth- 



gray's letters. 131 

Nee procul infelix se tollit in sethera Gaurus, 
Prospicieiis vitreum lugen;i vertice poiitum ; 
Tristior ille diu, et veteri desuetus oliva 
Gaums, pampineseque eheu jam nescius umbrae ; 
Horrendi tam saevi premit vicinla montis, 
Attoiiitumque urget latus, exuritque feventem. 
Nam fama est olira media dum lura silebant 
Nocte. De victa et niolli pevfus quiete, 
'Infremuisse sequor ponti, auditamqiie per omnes 
Late tellurem siirdum imnuigire cavernas : 
Quo soiiitu neraora alta trenmnt ; tivmit excita tuto 
Parthenopaea sism, flaramantisque oia Vesevi. 
At suhito se aperire solum, vastosque reccssus 
Pandei-e stib pedihus, iiigi-aque voragiiie fauces ; 
Turn piceas cinerum gloiiierare sub Kthere nubes 

quakes, as no one house was left so entire as not to expect an im- 
mediate uin ; after that the sea had retired two hundred paces 
from the shore (Itavijig abundance of fish, and sjjrings of fresh 
Avater rising in the bottom,) this mountain visibly ascended about 
the second hour of the night, with an hideous roaring, hon-ibly 
vomiting stones and such store of ciaders as overwhelmed all tlie 
buildings thereabout, and the salubrious baths of Tripergula, for so 
many ages celebrated ; consumed the A-ines to ashes, killing birds 
and Ix-asts ; the fearful inhabitants of Puzzol flying througli the 
dark with their wives and children, naked defiled, crying out. and 
detesting their calamities. Manifold mischiefs have they suffered 
by the barbarous, yet none like this which Nature inflicted. This 
new mouiitaii), when newly raised, had a number of issues ; at 
some of them smoking and sometimes flaming ; at others disgorg- 
ing rivulets < f hot wattrs; keeping within a terrible rumbling ; 
and many miserably perished that ventured to descend into the 
hollowness a1)ove. But that hollow on the top is at present an 
orchai'd, and the mouniajn throughout is bereft of its teiTOis." 

Sanclys't Travels, book iv. page 275, 277, and 278, 



132 GRAY'S LETTERS. 

Vorticibus rapidis, ardentique itnbre procellam* 
Praecipites fugere ferae, perqne avia longe 
Sil varum fugit pastor, juga per deseita, 
Ah, miser ! inci-epitans ssepe alta roce per uiiibram 
Neqiiidquam natos, creditqiie audire sequentes. 
Atque ille excelso rupis de vertice solus 
Rtspectaiis notrisque donios, et dulcia regna, 
Nil usquam videt infelix prater mave tiisti 
Lumine percussum, et pallentes sulphure campos, 
Fumumque, flammasque, rotataque turbine saxa. 

Qiiin ubi detomrit fmgor, et lux rtddita ccelo ; 
Moestos confluere agricolas, passuque vidtres 
Taiidcm iteruin tiniido deserta requirere tecta : 
Speraiites, si forte oculis, si forte darontur 
Uxoruiii cineres, miserorumve ossa parentum, 
(Tenuia, sed tauti saltim solatia lucuis) 
Una colJigere et jiista compoiiere iu uma. 
Uxorum nusquani cineres, iiusquam ossa parentum 
(Spem miseram !) assuetosve Lai'es, aut rura videbuut. 
Qia,)pe ubi plani'dcs campi diffusa jacebat ; 
Mons novus : ille supereiliuni. frontemque favilla 
Iiicanum ostentans, anibustis cautibus, aequor 
Subjectum, stragemque suam, nlo^sta arva, minaci 
Despicit imperio, solcque in littore regnat. 

Hinc iufame loci nomen, multosque per annos 
Imnienjor antiquse iaudis, nescire Ictbores 
■Vomeris. et nuUo tellus reviirsceit cultu. 
Non aviUiB colles, non carmine matutino 
Pjtstorum resonare ; adeo undique dirus habebat 
lutornies late liou-or agi'os saltusque vacaiites. 
Saipius et loage tfitorquens navita proram, 
Mo. straliat oigito lictus, sfeva'que itvolvens 
Fmier.i narrft'jftt novtis, vtteremque ruiuam. 

M 'Mtis adin.c facies manet hirta atque aspera saxis ; 
Sed fuim- exstinvtus janidudum, et tlamtua quievit, 



GRAY 3 LETTERS. l.^O 

Quse nascent! aderat ; seu forte bituminis atri 
Defluxene oiim rivi, atque eiTceta lacuna 
Pabula sufficere ardori vivesque recusat ; 
Sive in visceribiis ineditaiis iuceudia jam nunc 
(Horrendum !) arcanis glomerat gemi esse futiirse 
Exitio. sparsos tacitusque recolligit ignes. 

Raro per cUtos baud secius ordine vidi 
Canescenteni oleain : longum post tempus aniicti 
Yite virent tiirauli ; patriamque revisere gaudens 
Baccbus in assuetis teneruni caput exserit ax-vis 
\ix. tandeiT), iiifidoque audet se credere coelo. 

There was a certain little ode* set out 
from Rome, in a letter of recommendation to 
yon, but possibly fell into the enemies' 
hands, for 1 never heard of its arrival. It 
is a little impertinent to inquire after its 
welfare: but you, that are a father, will ex- 
cuse a parent's foolish fondness. Last post 
I received a very diminutive letter: it made 
excuses for its unentertainingness, very lit- 
tle to the purpose; since it assured me, 
very strongly, of your esteem, which is to 
me the thing; all the rest appear but as the 
petits agremens, the garnishing of the dish. 
P. Bougeant, in his Langage des Betes, 
fancies that your birds, who continually re- 
peat the same note, say only in plain terms, 
" Je vous aime, raa chere; ma chere, je 

* The Alcaic ode inserted in Letter XXXtK. 



134 gray's letters. 

vous aime; and that those of greater genius 
indeed, with various trills, run divisions up- 
on the subject; but that the fond, from 
whence it all proceeds, is "toujours je vous 
aime." Now _y'ou may, as you find yourself 
dull or in humour, either take me for a 
chaffinch or nightingale; sing your plain 
song, or show your skill in music, but in the 
bottom, let there be, toujours, toujours de 
Tamitie. 

As to what you call my serious letter; be 
assured, that your future state is to me en- 
tirely indifterent. Do not be angry, but 
hear me; I mean with respect to myself. 
For whether you be at the lop of fame, or 
entirely unknown to mmkind; at the coun- 
cil-table, or at Dick's coifee-house; sick and 
simple, or well and wise; whatever altera- 
tion mere accident works in you ('supposing 
it utterly impossible for it to make any 
change in your sincerity and honesty, since 
these are conditions sine qua non,) 1 do not 
see any likelihood of ray not being yours 
ever. 



135 
XLVI. 



TO HIS FATHER. 



Florence, Oct: 9. 1740. 

The beginning of next spring i.s tbe rnuc- de- 
termined for our return at furthest; possi- 
blj it may be before that time. How the 
interim will be employed, or wh;it route we 
shall take, is not so certain. If we remain 
friends with France, upon leaving this coun- 
try we shall cross over to Venice, and so 
return through the cities north of the Po to 
Genoa; from thence take a felucca to M-av- 
seilles, and come back through Paris. If 
the contrary fall out, which seems not un- 
likely, we must take the Milanese, and those 
parts of Italy, in^ our way to Venice; from 
vhence must pass through the Tyrol into 
Germany, and come home by the Low-Coun- 
tries. As for Florence, it has been gajer 
than ordinary for this last month, being one 
round of balls and entortai undents, occasion- 
cd by the arrival of a great Milanese lady; 
for the only thing the Italians shine in, is 
their reception of strangers. At such times 
every thing is niRgnifcence: the more re- 
markable, as in their ordinarv course of life 



136 gray's letters. 

they are parsimonious, even to a degree of 
Hastiness. I saw in one of the vastest pa- 
laces in Rome, that of prince Pamfiiio, the 
apartment which he him-elf inhabited, a bed 
that most servants in England would disdain 
to lie in, and furniture much like that of a 
soph at Cambridge, for convenience and 
neatness. This man is worth SO, 000/. sterl- 
ing a year. As for eating, there are not two 
cardinals in Rome that allow more than six 
paoli, which is three shillings a day, for the 
expense of their table: and you may imagine 
they are still less extravagant here than 
there. But when they receive a visit from 
any friend, their houses and persons are set 
out to the greatest advantage, and appear in 
all their splendour; it is, indeed, from a 
motive of vanity, and with the hopes of hav- 
ing it repaid them with interest, whenever 
they have occasion to return the visit. I 
call visits going from one city of Italy to 
another; for it is not so among acquaintance 
of the same place on common occasions. 
The new pope has retrenched the charges 
of his own table to a sequin (ten '^hillings) a 
meal. The applause which all he says and 
does meet with, is enough to encourage him 
really to deserve fame. They say he is an 
uble and honest man; he is reckoned a wit 



gray's lktters. 137 

too. The other day, when the senator of 
Rome came to wait upon him, at the first 
compliments he made him, the pope pulled 
off his cap. His master of the ceremonies, 
who stood by his side, touched him softly, as 
to warn him that such a condescension was 
too great in him, and out of all manner of 
rule. Upon which he turned to him, and 
said, "Oh! I cry you mercy, good master: 
it is true, I am but a novice of a pope; 
I have not 3^et so much as learned ill man- 
na ra '' ^ 'f' 5^ 



XLVII. 

TO HIS FATHER. 

Florence, Jau. 12, 1741. 

We still continue constant at Florence, at 
present one of the dullest cities in ttaly. 
Though it is the middle of the carnival, there 
are no public diversions; nor is masquerad- 
ing permitted as yet. The emperor's obse- 
quies are to be celebrated publicly the 16th 
of this month; and after that, it is imagined 
every thing will go on in its usual course. 
In the mean time, to employ the minds of 
the populace, the government has thought 



138 gray's letters. 

fit to bring into the city in a solemn manner, 
and at a great expense, a famous statue of 
the Virgin, called the Madonna deirinipru- 
neta, from the place of her residence, which 
is upon a mountain seven miles off. It 
never has been practised, but at times of 
public calamity; and was done at present to 
avert the ill effects of a late great inunda- 
tion, which it was feared might cause some 
epidemical distemper. It was introduced a 
fo'^tnight ago in procession, attended by the 
council of regency, the senate, the nobility, 
and all the religious orders, on foot and bare- 
headed, and so carried to the great church, 
where it was frequented by an infinite con- 
course of people from all the country round. 
Among the rest, 1 paid my devotions almost 
ever} day, and saw numbers of people pos- 
sessed with the d'^vil, who were brought to 
be exorcised. It was indeed in the evening, 
and the churcL-doors were always shut be- 
fore the ceremonies were finished, so that I 
could not be eye witness of the event; but 
that they weie all cured is certain, for one 
never heard any more of them the next morn- 
ing. I am to night just returned from seemg 
ourlady make her exit vvith the same solemni- 
ties she entered. The show had a finer 
efi'ect than before; for it was dark, and every 



gray's letters. 139 

body (even those of the mob that could afford 
it) bore a white-wax tlambeau. I beHeve 
there was at least live thousand of them, and 
the march was near three hours in passing 
before the window. The subject of all this 
devotion is supposed to be a large tile with 
a rude tigure in bas relief upon it. I say 
supi^osed, because since the time it was found 
(for it was found in the earth in ploughing) 
only two people have seen it; the one vvas, 
by good luck, a saint; the other was struck 
blind for his presumption. Ever since she 
has been covered with seven veils: never- 
theless, those who approach her tabernacle 
cast their eyes down, for fear they should 
spy her through all her veils. Such is the 
history, as I had it from the lady of the house 
where I stood to see her pass; with many 
other circumstances: all of which she firmly 
believes, and ten thousand besides. 

We shall go to Venice in about six weeks, 
or sooner. A number of German troops 
are upon their march into this state, in case 
the king of Naples thinks proper to attack it. 
It is certain that he asked the pope's leave 
for his troops to pass through his country. 
The Tuscans in general are much discon- 
tented, and foolish enough to wish for a 
Spanish government, or any rather than 
this. * * * 



J 40 gray's letters. 



XLVIII. 



TO MR, WEST. 



Florence, April 21, 1741. 

I KNOW not what degree ofsatisfacLioii it will 
give you to be told that we shall set out from 
hence the 24th of this month, and not stop 
above a fortnight at any place in our way. 
This I feel, that you are the principal jdea- 
sure I have to hope for in my own country. 
Try at least to make me imagine myself not 
indifferent to you; for I must own I have the 
vanity of desiring to be esteemed by some- 
body, and would choose that somebody 
should be one whom I esteem as much as I 
do you. As I am recommending myself to 
your love, methinks I ought to send you my 
picture (for I am no more what I was, some 
circumstances excepted, vvhich 1 hope I need 
not particularize to you); you must add then, 
to your former idea, two years of age, a rea- 
sonable quantity of dulness, a great deal of 
silence, and something that rather resembles, 
than is, thinking; a confused notion of many 
strange and fine things that have swum be- 
fore my eyes for some time, a want of love 
for general society, indeed an inability to it. 
On the good side you may add a sensibility 



gray's letters. 14j 

for what others feel, and indulgence for their 
faults or weaknesses, a love of truth, and de- 
testation of everv thing else. Then you are 
to deduct a little impertinence, a little laugh- 
ter, a great deal of pride, and some spirits. 
These are all the alterations I know of, you 
perhaps may find more. Think not that I 
have been obliged for this reformation of 
manners to reason or reflection, but to a 
severer school-mistress. Experience. One 
has little merit in learning her lessons, for 
one cannot well help it; but they are more 
usefril than others, and imprint themselves 
in the very heart. I tind I have been ha- 
ranj^uing in the style of the Sonof Sirach, so 
shall tinish here, and tell you that our route 
is settled as follows: First to Bologna for a 
few days, to hear the Viscontina sing; next 
to Reggio. where is a fair. Now, you must 
know, a fair here is not a place where one 
eats gingerbread or rides upon hobby- 
horses; here are no musical clocks, nor tall 
Leicestershire women; one has nothing but 
masquing, gaming, and singing. If you love 
operas, there will be the most splendid ia 
Italy, four tip-top voices, a new theatre, the 
duke and duchess in ail their pomps and van- 
ities. Does not this sound magnificent? Yet 
is the city of Reggio but ope step above Old 



142 gray's letters. 

Brentford. Well ; next to Venice by the 
1 1th of May, there to s^ie the old Doge wed 
the Adriatic whore. Tiien to VeroucJ, so to 
Milan, so to Marseilles, so to Lyons, so to 
Pari?, so to West, &.c. in SdBCula saeculorum. 
Amen. 

Eleven months, at different times, have I 
passed at Florence; und yet (God help me) 
know not either people or language. Yet 
the place and t!ie charming prospects demand 
a poetical farewell, and here it is, 

• * Oh Faesulae amoena 
Frigoribus juga, nee liimimn spiiaiitibus aiiris, 
Alma quibus Tusci Fallas Dcus ApeJiniiii 
Esse dcdit, glaucaque sua canesctre silva I 
Non ego vos posthac Ann de valle videbo 
Porticibus cireum, et candenti ciiicta corona 
Villarum longe n'.tido consuigere dorse, 
Antiquamve aedem, et veteres prsefen-e eupressus 
Mirabof, tectisque super pendeutia teeta. 

I will send yon, too, a pretty little sonnet 
of a Signor Abbate Buondelmonte, with my 
imitation of it. 

Spesso Amor sotto la forma 
D'amista ride, e s'aaconde : 
Poi si luischia, e si co.'fonde 
Con lo sdt gno, e col rancor. 
Iii Pielade ei si traii^^forina ; 
Par ti-astuUo, e par dispetto : 



gray's letters. . 143 

>Ia nel suo diverso aspetto 
Sempi'egli, e I'iiUsso Amor. 

Lusit amicitiae intei"dura velatus amictu, 

Et bene composita vesie fefeliit Amor. 
Mox irse assumsit cultiis, laciemque mmantem, 

luque odium versus, versus et in lacry.nas : 
Ludeiitem fuge, nee lacrynianti, aut crede furenti ; 

Idem est dissimili semper in ore Deus. 

Here cornes a letter from you. — I must 
defer giving my opinion of *Pausanias till I 
can see the whole, and only have said what 
I did in obedience to your commands I 
have spoken with such freedom on this head, 
that it seems but jurst you should have your 
revenge; and therefore I send you the be- 
ginning not of an epic poem, but of ja mela- 
physic one. Poems and metaphysics (say 
you, with your spectacles on) are inconsist- 
ent things. A metaphysical poem is a con- 
tradiction in terms. It is true, but I will go 
ou. It is Latin too. to increase the absurdity. 
It will, 1 suppose, put you in mind of the 
man who wrote a treatise of canon law in 
hexameters. Pray help me to the descrip- 

• Some part of a tragedy under that title, which Mr. Wert bad 
begun, 

t The beginning of the first book of a didactic poem, ^ De Prin- 
cipiis C<^itaiidi."— 5ee Poenis. 



144 GRAY S LETTERS. 

tion of a mixed mode, and a little episode 
about space. 



Mr. Walpole and Mr. Gray set out from Florence at the time 
specified in the foregoing letter. When Mr. Gray left Venice, 
vhich he did the middle of July following, he i-etumed home 
through Padua, Verona, Milan. Tinin, and Lyons ; from all which 
places he writ either to his father or mother with great punctuali- 
ty : hut merely to inform them of his health and safety ; ahout 
which (as might be expected) they were now vei-y anxious, as he 
travelled with only a " Laquais de Voyage." These letters do not 
even mention that he went out of his way to make a second visit 
to the Graiide Chartreuse, and there wrote in the Album of the 
Fathtrs the Alcaic Ode : 

Oh Tu, severi Religio loci, hc.—See Poems. 

He was at Turin the 15th of August, and Ijegan to cross the Alps 
the next day. On the 25th he reachtd Ljx)i s -, therefore it must 
have Ijeen between these two dates that he made this visit. 



XLIX. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

1 WRITE to make you write, for I have not 
much to tell you. I have recovered no 
spirits as yet,* but, as I am iiot displeased 

* The distresses of Mr. West's mind had already too far affected a 
body, from the first wejkkaod delicate. His health declined daily, 



gray's letters. lib 

with my company, I sit purring by the fire- 
side in my arm-chair with no small satisfac- 
tion. I read too sometimes, and have begun 
Tacitus, but have not yet read enough to 
jud^e of him; only his Pannonian sedition, in 
the first book of his Annals which is just as 
far as 1 have got, seemed to me a hltle te- 
dious. 1 have no more to say, but to desire 
you will write letters of a handsome length, 
and always answer me within a reasonable 
spice of time, which 1 leave to your discre- 
tion. 

Popes, Match 28, 1742. 

P. S. The new Dunciad ! qu'en pensez 
vous ? 



TO MR. WEST.* 

I TRUST to the country, and that easy indo- 

and, therefore, he left town in Mai-ch, 1742, and, for the benefit of 
the air, went to David Mitchell's, Esq. at Popes, near Hatfield, 
Hertfoi-dshire ; at whose house he died the 1st of June following. 

* Mr Gra5' caruc to to'\u about the 1st of Septenilier, 1741. His 
father died the 6th of November foliuwiug, at the age of sLxty-five. 
The latter ena of the: subsequent year he went to Cambridge totake 
hi s bachelor's degree in civil law. 

VOL. IV. 10 



146 GRAV S LETTERS. 

lence you say you enjoy there, to restore 
you your health and spirits; and doubt not 
but, when the sun grows warm enough to 
tempt you from your fireside, you will (like 
all other things) be the better for his influ- 
ence, lie is my old friend, and an excellent 
nurse, 1 assure you. Had it not been for 
him, life had been often to me intolerable. 
Pray do not imagine that Tacitus, of all au- 
thors in the world, can be tedious. An an- 
nalist, you know, is hy no means master of 
his subject; and I think one may venture to 
say, that if those Funnonian affairs are te- 
dious in his hands, in another's they would 
have been insupportable. However, fear 
not, they will soon be over, and he will make 
ample amends. A man, who could join the 
brilliant of wit and concise sententiousness 
peculiar to that age, with the truth and grav- 
ity of better times, and the deep reflection 
and good sense of the best moderns, cannot 
choose bat have something to strike you. 
Yet what I admire in him above all this, is 
his detestation of tyranny, and the high spirit 
of liberty that every now and then breaks 
out, as it were, whether he would or no I 
remember a sentence in his Agricola that 
(concise as it is) I always admired for saying 
much in a little compass. He speaks of Do- 



GRAVr's LETTERS. 147 

mitlan, who upon seeing the last will of 
that general, where he had made him co- 
heir with his wife and daughter, "Satis con- 
stabat laitatum eum, velut honore, judicio- 
que: tarn Cceca et corrupta mens assiduis 
adulationibus erat, ut nesciret a bono patre 
non scribi hasredem, nisi malum principem." 

As to the Dunciad, it is greatly admired: 
The genii of Operas and Schools, with their 
attendants, the pleas of the Virtuosos and 
Florists, and the yawn of Dulness in the end, 
are as fine as an}' thing he has written. The 
Metaphysicians' part is to me the worst; and 
here and there a few ill-expressed lines, and 
some hardly intelligible. 

I take the liberty of sending you a long 
speech of Agrippina;* much too long, but I 
could be glad you would retrench it. Ace- 
ronia, you may remember, had heen giving 
quiet counsels. I fancy, if it ever be finish- 
ed, it vvill be in the nature of Nat. Lee's bed- 
lam tragedy, which had twenty-five acts and 
some odd scenes. 

♦ See Poems. 



148 



LI. 



FROM MR. WEST. 



Popes, April 4, 1742. 

1 OWN in i^eneral I think Agrippina's speech 
too long; but how to retrench it, I know 
not: but I have something else to say, and 
that is in relation to the style, which appears 
to me too antiquated. Racine was of ano- 
ther opinion: he no where gives you the 
phrases of Ronsard: His language is the lan- 
guage of the times, and that of the purest sort; 
so that his French is reckoned a standard. I 
will not decide what style is fit for our English 
stage: but I should rather choose one that 
bordered upon Cato, than upon Shakspeare. 
One may imitate (if one can) Shakspeare's 
manner, his surprising strokes of true nature, 
his expressive force in painting characters, 
and all his other beauties; preserving at the 
same time our own language. Were Shak- 
speare alive now, he would write in a dif- 
ferent style from what he did. These are 
my sentiments upon these matters: jperhaps I 
am wrong, for lam neither a Tarpa, nor am 
I quite an Aristarchus. You see I write 



gray's letters. 149 

freel}' both of you and Shakspeare; but it is 
as good as writing not freely, where you 
know it is acceptable. 

I have been tormented within this week 
with a most violent cough; for when once it 
sets up its note, it will go on, cough after 
cough, shaking and tearing me for half an 
hour together, and then it leaves me in a 
great swea't, as much fatigued as if 1 had 
been labouring at the plough. All this de- 
scription of my cough in prose, is only to in- 
trqduce another description of it in verse, 
perhaps not worth your perusal; but it is 
very short, and besides has this remarkable 
in it, that it was the production of four 
o'clock in the morning, while I lay in my 
bed tossing and coughing, and all unable to 
sleep. 

Ante omnes moibos importuiiissima tussis, 
Qua durare datur, traxitque sub ilia vires t 
Dui-a etenira vei-sans inio sub pectore regai, 
Perpetuo exercet teneras luctamine costas, 
Oraque distorquet, vocemque iminutat anlielam ; 
Nee cessare locus : sed saevo concita motu, 
MoUe domat latus, et corpus labor omne fatigat : 
Unde raolesta dies, noctemque insomnia turbant. 
Nee Tua, si raecura Comes hie jucundus adesses, 
Verba .juvar* queant, aut hunc lenire do'orem 
Sufficiant tua vox dulcis. nee vultus ai«atu«. 



150 gray's letters. 

Do not mistake me, I do not condemn Ta- 
citus: I was then inclined to find him tedious: 
the German sedition sufficiently made up 
for it; and the speech of Germanicus, by 
which he reclaims his soldiers, is quite mas- 
terly. Your New Dunciad I have no con- 
ception of. I shall be too late for our din- 
ner if I write any more. 

Yours. 



LII. 

TO MR. WEST. 

London, April, Thursday. 

You are the first who ever made a muse of a 
cough; to me it seems a much more easy 
task to versify in one's sleep, (that indeed 
you were of old famous for) than for want of 
it. Not the wakeful nightingale (vyhen she 
had a cough) ever sung so sweetly. 1 give 
you thanks for your warble, and wish you 
could sing yourself to rest. These wicked 
remains of your illness will sure give way 
to warm weather and gentle exercise; which 
I hope you will not omit as the season ad- 
vances. Whatever low spirits and indo- 
lence, the effect of them, may advise to the 



geay's letters. Ibl 

contrary, I pray you add five steps to your 
walk daily for my sake; by the help of 
which, in a month's time, I propose to set 
you on horseback. 

I talked of the Dunciad as concluding 
3'ou had seen it; if you have not, do you 
choose I should get and send it to you? 1 
have myself, upon your recommendation, 
been reading Joseph Andrews. The inci- 
dents are ill-laid and without invention; but 
the characters have a great deal of nature, 
which always pleases even in her lowest 
shapes. Parson Adams is perfectly well; so 
is Mrs. Shpslop, and the story of Wilson; 
and throughout he shows himself well read 
in stage-coaches, country 'squires, inns, and 
inns of court. His reflections upon high 
people and low people, and misses and 
masters, are very good. However the ex- 
altedness of some minds (or rather as 1 
shrewdly suspect their insipidity and want 
of feeling or observation) may make them 
insensible to these light things, (I mean such 
as characterize and paint nature) yet surely 
Ihey are as weighty and much more useful 
than your grave discourses upon the mind, 
the passions, and what not. Now as the pa- 
radisaical pleasures of the ^lahomet^ns consist 
in playing upon the flute and lying with 



152 gray's letters. 

Ilouris, be mine to read eternal new ro- 
mances of Marivaux and Crebillon. 

Yon are very good in givinn; yonrself the 
trouble to read and find fciult with my long- 
harangues. Your freedom (as you call it) 
has so little need of apologies, that I should 
scarce excuse your treating me any other- 
wise; which, whatever compliment it might 
be to my vanity, would be making a very ill 
one to my understanding. As to matter of 
style, I have this to say: the language of the 
age is never the language of poetry; except 
among tlie French, whose verse, where the 
thouglit or image does not support it, differs 
in nothing from prose. Our poetry, on the 
contrary, has a language peculiar to itself; to 
which almost every one, that has written, 
has added something by enriching it with 
foreign*idioms and derivatives: nay, some- 
times words of their ovvn composition or in- 
vention. Sbakspeare and Milton have been 
great creators this way; and no one more 
licentious than Pope or Dryden, who per- 
petually borrow expi-^ssions from the former. 
Let me give you some instances from Ory- 
den, whom every body reckons a great mas- 
ter of our poetical tongue. — Full of muscful 
mopdngs — unlike the trim of love — a plea- 
iant beverage — 2. roundelay of love — stood si- 



gray's letters. 153 

lent in his mocd — with knots and knaves 
deformed—his ireful mood — in prond array 

\ih loon was granted and dh^array and 

shaiiietul ront — rv.'unvnrd h't wise — -furbished 
for tiie field — the foiled dvddrr'd oaks — dis- 
hrittd — siiwuhl n«^ 1[\Ame?—rctchless of laws- 
cronts old and tialy — the beldam at his side — 
the grandam-hap — villi nvd; his father's fnme. 

But they are infiiiite: and our language 

not being a settled thing (like the French) 
has an undoubted right to words of an hun- 
dred years old, provided antiquity have not 
rendered them uninteHigible. In truth, 
Shakspeare's language is one of his princi- 
pal beauties; and he has no less advantage 
over your Adiisons and Rowes in this, 
than in those other great excellences you 
mention. Every word in him is a picture. 
Pray put me the following lines into the 
tongue of our modern dramatics: 

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, 
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass: 
I. that am rudely stamp'd. and vant love's majesty 
To strut before a wanton, ambling nymph : 
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, 
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
Deform'd, unfinisli'd, sent befon my time 
Into this breathins; world, scarce half made wp— 



J 54 gray's letters. 

And what follows. To me they appear un- 
translatable; and if this be the case, our 
language is greatly degenerated- However, 
the affectation of imitating Shakspeare may 
doubtless be carried too fir; and is no sort 
of excuse for sentiments ill-suited, or speech- 
es ill-timed, which 1 believe is a little the 
case with me. I guess the most faulty ex- 
pressions may be these — silken son of dalli- 
ance—- di07vsirr pretensions — wrinkled bel- 
dams — arched the hearer's brow and rivcttcd 
his eyes in fearful extasie. These are easily 
altered or omitted: and indeed if the thoughts 
be wrong or superfluous, there is nothing 
easier than to leave out the whole. The 
first ten or twelve lines are, I believe, the 
best;* and as for the rest, I was betrayed 
into a good deal of it by Tacitus; only 
what he has said in five words, I imagine 
I have said in fifty lines: such is the mis- 
fortune of imitating the inimitable. Now, if 
you are of my opinion, una litura may do 
the business, better than a dozen; and you 
need not fear unravelling my web. I am a sort 
of spider; and have little else to do but spin 

* The lines which he means hei-e are from '' thus ever grave 
and undisturh'd reflection." to " Rubellins lives." For the p.'utof 
the scene, whicli he sent in his former letter, began there. 



gray's letters. 155 

it over again, or creep to some other place 
and spin there. Alas! for one who has 
nothing to do but amuse himself, I believe 
my amusements are as little amusing as most 
folks. But no matter; it mnke'- the *;n;.rs 
pass; and is better than iv ufAcc^iet xett uficva-ioe 
xatrec^imxi. 

Adieu. 



LIIl. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

To begin with the conclusion of your letter, 
which is Greek, I desire that you will quar- 
rel no more with your manner of passing 
your time. In my opinion it is irreproacha- 
ble, especially as it produces such excellent 
fruit; and if I, like a saucy bird, must be 
pecking at it, you ought to consider that 
it is because I like it. No una litura I beg 
you, no unravelling of your web, dear sir! 
only pursue it a little further, and then 
one shall be able to judge of it a little bet- 
ter. You know the crisis of a play is in 
the first act; its damnation or salvation whol- 
ly rests there. But till that first act is over, 
every body suspends his vote: so how do 



166 gray's letters. 

you think I can form, as yet, any just idea of 
the speeches in regard to their length or 
shortness? Tlie connection and symmetry 
of such little parts with one another must 
natural]3' escape me, as not having the plan 
of the whole in my head; neither can I de- 
cide ahoul the thoughts, whether they are 
wrong or superfluous; they may have some 
future tendency which I perceive not. The 
style only was free to me, and there I find we 
are pretty much of the same sentiment: for 
you say the affectation of imitating Shak- 
speare may doubtless be carried too far: I 
say as much and no more. For old words 
we know are old gold, provided they are 
well chosen. Whatever Ennius was, I do 
not consider Shakspeare as a dunghill in the 
least: on the contrary, he is a mine of an- 
cient ore, where all our great modern po- 
ets have found their advantage. 1 do not 
know how it is; but his old expressions have 
more energy in them than ours, and are 
even more adapted to poetry; certainly, 
where they are judiciously and sparingly in- 
serted, they add a certain grace to the com- 
position; in the same manner as Poussin 
gave a beauty to his pictures by his know- 
ledge in the ancient proportions: but should 
he, or any other painter, carry the imita- 



GRAY S LETTERS. 157 

tion too far, and ne^ijlect that best of models, 
Nature, I am afraid it vvo-ild prove a very 
flat performance. To tinish this long criti- 
cism: 1 have this further notion about old 
worcis revived, (is not this a pretty way of 
tinishing?) i think them of excellent use in 
tai'^s: they add a certain drollery to the 
comic, and a romantic ijravity to the serious, 
which are both charming in their kind; and 
this way of charming Dryden understood 
very well. One need only read Milton to 
acknowledge the dignity they give the epic. 
But now comes my opinion, that they ought 
to be used in tragedy more sparingly, than 
in most kinds of [»oetry. Tragedy is de- 
signed for public representation, and what 
is designed for that should be certainly most 
intelligible. I believe half the audience 
that come to Shakspeare's plays do not un- 
derstand the half of what they hear. — But 
finissons enfin. — Yet one word more. — You 
think the ten or twelve tirst lines the best, 
now I am for the fourteen last;* add, that 
they contain not one word of ancientry. 

• He means the conclusion «f the first scene. But here and 
tljToughout his criticism on old words, he is not so consistent as 
hii covrfspondeiii ; for he here i).siits that ail ancientry should 
be struck out, and in a former passage [he admits it may be used 
sparingly. 



158 GRAY S LETTERS. 

I rejoice you found amusement in Joseph 
Andrews. But then I think your concep- 
tions of Paradise a little upon the Bergerac. 
Les Lettres du Seraphim R. a madame la 
Cherubinesse de Q,. What a piece of extra- 
vagance would there be! 

And now you must know that my bodj"- 
continues weak and enervate. And for my 
animal spirits they are in perpetual fluctua- 
tion: some whole days I have no relish, no 
attention for any thing; at other times I re- 
vive, and am capable of writing a long let- 
ter, as you see; and though 1 do not vvrite 
speeches, yet 1 translate them. When you 
understand what speech, you will own that 
it is a bold and. perhaps a dull attempt. la 
three words, it is prose, it is from Tacitus, 
it is of Germanicus. Peruse, perpend, pro- 
nounce.* 



LIV. 

TO MR. WEST. 

London, April, 1742. 

1 SHOULD not have failed to answer your let- 
ter immediately, but I went out of town for 

* This speech I omit to print as I have generally avoided to 
publish mere translations either of Mr. Gray or his friend. 



gray's letters. 169 

a little while, which hindered me. Its 
length, (besides the pleasure naturally ac- 
companying a long letter from you) atiords 
me a new one, when I think it is a symptom 
of the recovery of your health, and flatter 
myself that your bodily strength returns in 
proportion. Pray do not forget to mention 
the progress you make continually. As to 
Agrippina, I begin to be of your opinion; and 
find myself (as women are of their children) 
less enamoured of my productions the older 
they grow. She is laid up to sleep till next 
summer; so bid her good night. I think 
you have translated Tacitus very justly, 
that is, freely ; and accommodated his 
thoughts to the turn and genius of our 
language; which, though I commend your 
judgment, is no commendation of the En- 
glish tongue, which is too diffuse, and daily 
grows more and more enervate. One shall 
never be more sensible of this, than in turn- 
ing an author like Tacitus. I have been 
trying it in some parts of Thucydides, (who 
has a little resemblance of him in his con- 
ciseness) and endeavoured to do it closely, 
but found it produced mere nonsense. If 
you have any inclination to see what figure 
Tacitus makes in Italian, I have a Tuscan 
translation of Davanzati, much esteemed in 



160 gray's letters. 

Italy; and will send you the same speech 
yoM sent mc; that is, if you care for it. In 
the mean time accept of Fropertius.* * * * 



LV. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

Popes, May 6, 1742. 

Without an)- preface 1 come to 3 our verses, 
which 1 read over and over with excessive 
pleasure, and which are at least as good as 
Propertius. 1 am only soriy you follow the 
blunders of Broukhusius, all whose inser- 
tions are nonsense. I have some objections 
to your antiquated words, and am also an 
enemy to Alexandrines; at least I do not 
like them in elegy. But, after all, I admire 
your translation so extremely, that I cannot 
help repeutiny; I long to show you some lit- 
tle errors you are fallen into by following 
BroukhHsius. ******** Were 1 with 
you now, and Propertius with your ver^^es 
lay upon the table between us, I could dis- 
cuss this point in a moment; but there is 
nothing so tiresome as spinning out a criti- 

* A translation of the first elegy of the second book in English 
riiyme ; omitted for the reason giren in the last note. 



gray's letters. 161 

cism in a letter; doubts arise, and explana- 
tions follow, till there swells out at least a 
volume of undigested observations: and all 
because you are not with him whom you 
want to convince. Read only the letters be- 
tween Pope and Cromwell in proof of this; 
they dispute without end. Are you aware 
now that I have an interest all this while in 
banishing criticism from our correspondence? 
Indeed 1 have; for I am going to write down 
a little ode (if it deserves the name) for 
your perusal, which I am afraid will hardly 
stand that test. Nevertheless I leave you at 
your full liberty; so here it follows. 



ODE. 

Dear Gray, that always in my Iieavt 
Possesses far the better part, 
What mean these sudden blasts that rise 
And drive the zephyrs from the skies ? 
O join with mine thy tuneful lay, 
And iuvocate the tardy May. 

Come, fairest nymph, resume tliy reign ! 
Bring all the Graces in thy train ! 
With balmy breath, and floweiy tread, 
Ris' from thy soft ambrosial bed ; 
Where, in Elysian slumber bound, 
Embowering myrtles veil thee round. 
VOL. IV. 11 



162 gray's letters. 

Awake, in all thy glories dress'd ; 
Recall die zephyi-s from tlie west : 
Restore tbt- sun, revive the skies : 
At mine and Nature's call, arise ! 
Great Nature's self upbraids tliy stay. 
And misses her accustom'd May. 

See ! all her works demand thy aid ; 
The labours of Pomona fade : 
A plaint is heard from every tree ; 
Each budding floweret calls for thee; 
The birds loi'get to love and sing ; 
With storms alone the forests nng. 

Come then, with Pleasure at thy sidc;, 
Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide ; 
Create, where'er thou turn'st thy eye, 
Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony ; 
Till every being share its part. 
And heaven and earth be glad at heart. 



LVI. 



TO MR. WEST. 

London, May 3, 1742. 

i REJOICE to see you putting up your prayers 
to the May: she cannot choose but come at 
such a call. It is as light and genteel as 
herself You bid me find fault; I am afraid 
1 cannot; however, I will try. The first 
stanza (if what you say to me in it did not 



gray's letters. 163 

make me think it the best) I should call the 
worst of the live (except ttie fourth line.) 
The two next are very piciuresque, Miltonic, 
and musical; her bed is so soft and so snug 
that 1 long to lie with her. But those two 
lines, " Great Nature," are my favourites. 
The exclamation of the Howers is a little 
step too far. The last stanza is full as good 
as the second and third; the last line bold, 
but 1 think not too bold. Now, as to myself 
and my translation, pray do not call names. 
1 never saw Broukhusius in my life. It is 
Scaliger who attempted to range Propertius 
in order; who was, and still is, in sad condi- 
tion *******■*. You see, by what I 
sent you, that I converse as usual with none 
but the dead: they are my old friends, and al- 
most make me long to be with them. Vou 
will not wonder therefore, that I, who live 
only in times past, am able to tell you no 
news of the present. I have finished the 
Peloponnesian war much to my honour, and 
a tight conflict it was, I promise you. I 
have drank and sung with Anacreon for the 
last fortnight, and am now feeding siieep with 
Tlieocritus. Besides, to quit my hgure, 
(because it is foolish) I have run over Pliny's 
Epistles and Martial &c Trx^s^yov} not to men- 
tion Petrarch, who, by tne way, is some- 



164 gray's letters, 

times very tender and natural. I must 
needs tell you three lines in Anacreon, 
where the expression seems to me inimita- 
ble. He is describing hair as he would -have 
it painted. 



'a 



E\/««? cT' iKivQipou; juol 
Aipts m Bi\ova-i KiiQcti. 
Guess, too, where this is about a dimple. 

Sigilla in mento unpressa Amoris digitulo 
Vestigio demonstrant moUitudinem. 



LVII. 

FROM MR. WEST. 

Popes, May 11, 1742. 

i^ouR fragment is in Aulus Gellius; and both 
it and your Greek delicious. But why are 
yon thus melancholy? I am so sorry for it, 
that you see I cannot forbear writing again 
the very first opportunity; though I have 
little to say, except to expostulate with you 
about it. I find you converse much with 
the dead, and I do not blame you for that; 
J converse with them too, though not indeed 



gray's letters. 466 

with the Greek. But I must condemn you 
for your longing to be with them. What, 
are there no joys among the living? I could 
almost cry out with Cutullus, "Alphene im- 
memor, atque unanimis false sodalibus!" 
But to turn an accusation thus upon another, 
is ungenerous; so I will take my leave of 
you for the present with a *'Vale, et vive 
paulisper cum vivis."" 



LVIII. 

TO MR. WEST. 

LondoD, ISIay 57, 1742. 

Mine, you are to know, is a vvhile melan- 
choly, or rather leucocholy for the most 
part ; which, though it seldom laughs or 
dances, nor ever amounts to what one calls 
joy or pleasure, yet is a good easy sort of a 
state, and (ja ne laisse que de s'amuser. The 
only fault of it is insipidity; which is apt now 
and then to give a sort of ennui, which 
makes one form certain little wishes that 
signify nothing. But there is another sort, 
black indeed, which I have now and then 
felt, that has somewhat in it like Tertullian's 
rule of iiiith, Credo quia impossibile est ; 



166 gray's letters. 

for it believes, nay, is gure of every thing 
that is unlikely, so it be but frightful; and, 
on the other hand, excludes and shuts its 
eyes to the most possible hopes, and every 
thing that is pleasureable ; from this the 
Lord deliver us! for none but he and sun- 
shiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoy- 
ing; thi.a kind of weather, I am going into the 
country for a few weeks, but shall be never 
the nearer any society; so, if you have any 
charity, you will continue to write. My life 
is like Harry the Fourth's supper of hens. — 
"Poulets a la broche,pouletsen ragout, pou- 
lets en hachis, poulets en fricasees." Read- 
ing here, reading there; nothing but books 
with different sauces. — Do not let me lose 
my dessert then; for though that be reading 
too, yet it has a very different flavour. The 
May seems to be come since your invitation; 
and I propose to bask in her beams and dress 
me in her roses. 

Et caput in Tema semper habere rosa: 

I sh^dl see Mr. * * and his wife, nay, and 
his child too, for he has got a boy Is it not 
odd to consider one's contempoi'aries in the 
grave light of husband and father ? There is 
my lords * * and ^ * *, they are statesmen; 



gray's letters. 167 

do not you remember them dirty boys play- 
ing at cricket ? As for me, I am never a bit 
the older, nor the bigger, nor the wiser than 
I was then; no, not lor having been beyond 
sea. — Pray how are you ? 

I send you an inscription for a wood joining 
to a park of mine; (it is on the contiries of 
Mount Cithaeion, on the left hand as you go 
to Thebes): you know I am no friend to 
hunters, and hate to be disturbed by their 
noise. 

A^c^svoc TrowQ-.ip'Jv tKuCoKov uXro? AV*.ircrA?y 
<T:t? fitv*? Tiy.iYii, Mt^i, KVVctyi, Bid;. 

yiovvoi X6 ivBA Kuvm ^*9s*)V KKoLyyiva-iv vKety/uiaiy 
ctvrsL^iii NufJKpdv ayponpav mK'i.S'a. 

Here follows also the beginning of an he- 
roic episile;* but you mustiiive me leave to 
tell my own story first, because historians 
dilTer. Massinissa v\'as the ?*on of Gala, king 
of the Massyli; and, when very young at the 
head of his father's army, gave a most signal 
overthrow to Syphax, king of the Massaesy- 
iians, then an ally of the Ron:ians. Soon 
after Asdrubal, son of Gisgothe Carthaginian 
general, gave the beautiful Sophonisba, his 

• Egregiura aecipio promissi munus aruori', &<>, Soe Peems. 



168 gray's letters. 

daughter, iA marriage to the young prince. 
But this marriage was not consummated on 
acconnt of Massinissa's being obliged to has- 
ten into Spain, there to command his ilither's 
troops, who were auxiliaries of the Cartha- 
ginians. Their affairs at this time began to 
be in a bad condition; and they thought it 
might be greatly for their interest, if they 
could bring over Syphax to themselves. 
This in time they actually effected; and, to 
strengthen their new alliance, commanded 
Asdrubal to give his daughter to Sj^phax. 
(It is probable their ingratitude to Massinis- 
i^a arose from the great change of affairs, 
which had happened among the Massylians 
during his absence; for his father and uncle 
were dead, and a distant relation of the royal 
fimily had usurped the throne.) Sophonisba 
was accordingly married to Syphax; and 
Massinissa, enraged at the affront, became a 
friend to the Romans. They drove the 
Carthaginians before them out of Spain, and 
carried the war into Africa, defeated Syphax, 
and took him prisoner; upon which Cirtha 
(his capital) opened her gates to Lselius and 
Massinissa. The Test of the affair, the mar- 
}'iage, and the sending of poison, every body 
knows. This is partly taken fromLivy, and 
partly from Appian. 



gray's letters. 169 

Immediately a^ter writing the preceding letter, Mr Gray went 
upon a visit to his i-elatiuns at Stoke ; where he writ that beauti- 
ful little ofle which sta.ids first in his collection of poems. He sent 
it as soon as writen to his beloved friend : but he was dead before it 
reached Hertfordshire. He died only twentj-days after he had 
writlon the letter to Mr. Gray, which concluded with '' Vale, et 
vive paulisper cum vivis." 



LIX. 

TO DR. WHARTON.* 

Cambridge, Dec. 27, 1742. 

I OU5HT to have returned you my thanks a 
long time ago, for the pleasure, I should say 
prodigy, of your letter; for such a thing has 
not happened above twice within this last 
age to mortal man, and no one here can con- 
ceive what it may portend. You have heard, 
I suppose, how I have been employed a part 
of the time; how, by my own indetatigable 
application for these ten years past, and by 
the care and vigilance of that worthy magls- 

* Of Old-Park, near Durham, With this gentleman Mr. Gray 
contracted an acquaintance very early : and though they were not 
educated at Eton, yet afterwards at Cambr'dge, when the doctor 
was fellow of Pembroke- Hall, they Ijecanie intimate friends, and 
continued so to the time of Mr. Gray's death. 



170 gray's letters. 

trate the ram ia bhie,* (who, I assure you, 
has not spared his labour, nor could have done 
more for his own son) i am got half way to 
the top ofjorisprudence,tand bid as fur as an- 
other bod^ to open a case of impotence with 
all decency and circumspection. You see my 
ambition, 1 do not doubt but some' thirty 
years hence I shall convince the world and 
you that I am a very pretty young fellow; and 
may come to shine in a profession, perhaps 
the noblest of all, except man-midwifery. 
As for yon, if your distemper and you can 
but agree about i^oina: to London, 1 may rea- 
sonably expect in a much shorter time to see 
you in yonr three-cornered villa, doing the 
honours (»f a 'tvell furnished table with as 
much dignity, as rich a mien, and as capa- 
cious a bi-dly, as Dr. Mead. Methinks I see 
Dr. * *, at the lower end of it, lost in admi- 
ration of your goodly person and parts, 
cramming down his envy (for it will rise) with 
the wing of a pheasant, and drowning it in 
neat Burgundy. But not to tempt your asth- 
ma too much with such a prospect, 1 should 
think you might be al'nost as happy and as 

* A servant of the vice-chancellor's for the time heing, usually 
known by the name of Blue Coat, whose business it is to attend 
acts for deg;r;-e-, &c. 

f i.e. Bachelor of civil law. 



GRAY S LETTERS. 171 

great as this even in the country. But you 
know best, and 1 should be sorry to say any 
thing tiiat mi^ht stop you in the career of 
glory; far be it from me to hamper the 
wheels (if your gilded chariot. Go on, sir 
Thomas; and when you die, (for even phy- 
sicians must die) may the faculty in War- 
wick lane erect } our statue in the very niche 
of sir John Cutler's. 

I was going to tell you how sorry I am for 
your illness, but 1 hope it is too late now: I 
can only say that \ really was very sorry. 
May you live a hundred Christmasses, and 
Crit as mativ collars of brawn stuck with rose- 
mary. Adieu, &c. 



LX. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Peterhouse, April 26, 1744. 

You write so feelingly to Mi. Inovvn, and 
represent your abandoned condition in terms 
so touching, that what gratitude could not 
effect in several months, compassion has 
brought about in a few days; and broke that 
strong atti'Chnient, or rather allegiance, 
which I and all here owe to our sovereign 



172 gray's letters. 

lady and mistress, the president of presidents 
and head of heads, (if I may be permitted to 
pronounce her name, that ineffable Octo- 
grammaton) the power of Laziness. You 
must know she had been pleased to appoint 
me (in preference to so many old servants 
of hers who had spent their whole lives in 
qualifying themselves -for the office) grand 
picker of straws and push-pin player to her 
supinity, (for that is her title). The first is 
much in the nature of lord president of the 
council; and the other like the groom-porter, 
only without the profit; but as they are both 
things of very great honour in this country, 
I consider with myself the load of envy at- 
tending such great charges; and besides (be- 
tween you and me) I found myself unable to 
support the fatigue of keeping up the ap- 
pearance that persons of such dignity must 
do; so 1 thought proper to decline it, and 
excused myself as well a*s I could. How^- 
ever, as you see such an affair. must take up 
a good deal of time, and it has always been 
the policy of this court to proceed slowly, 
like the Imperial and that of Spain, in the 
dispatch of business, you will on this account 
the easier forgive me, if 1 have not answer- 
ed you letter before. 



17o 

You desire to know, it seems, what cha- 
racter the poem of vour young iViend bears 
here.* I wonder that you Ask the opinion 
of a nation, where tho>e, who pretend to 
judge, do not judge at all ; a-.d the rest (the 
wiser part) wait t) catch the j^idginent of 
the world immediately above them ; that 
is, Dick's and the rainbow Coffee-houses. 
Your readier way would be to ask the ladies 
that keep the bars in those two theatres of 
criticism. However, to show you that i am 
a judge, as well as my countrymen, I will 
tell you, though I have rather turned it over 
than read it (but no matter ; no more have 
they), that it seems to me above the mid- 
dling ; and now and then, for a little while, 
rises even to the best, particularly in de- 
scription. It is often obscure, and even un- 
intelligible ; and too much infected with the 
Hutchinson jargon. In short, its great fault 
is, that it was published at least nine years 
too early. And so methinks in a few words, 
" a la mode du Temple," 1 have very pert- 

* Pleasures of the Imagination :— From the posthumous publica- 
tion of Dr. Akeiiside's Poems, it should seem that the author had 
vei-y much the same opinion aftervards of his own work, which 
Mr. Gray here expresses : since he und:rtook a reforni of it, which 
must have given him, had he concluded it, as much trouble as if 
he had written it entirely new. 



174 

ly disptitched what perhaps may for several 
years have employed a very ingenious man 
worth fifty of myself- 

You are much in the right to have a taste 
for Socrates ; he was a divine man. I must 
tell )^ou, by way of news of the place, that 
the other day a certain new professor made 
an apology for him an hour long in the 
schools; and all the world brought in Socrates 
guilty, except the people of his own college. 

The muse is gone, and left me in far 
worse company ; if she returns, you will 
hear of her. As to her child* (since you 
are so good as to inquire after it) it is but a 
puling chit yet, not a bit grown to speak of; 
I believe, poor thing, it has got the worms, 
that will carry it off at last. Mr. TroUope 
and 1 are in a course of tar-water ; he for 
his present, and 1 for my future distempers. 
If you think it will kill me, send away a man 
and horse directly ; for I drink like a fish. 

LXI. 

TO MR. W^ALPOLE. 

Cambridge, Feb. 3, 1746. 

You are so good to inquire after my usual 

* His poem " De Principiis Cogitandi.** 



gray's letters. 175 

time of coming to town : it is at a season 
when even you, the perpetual friend of 
London, will, I fear, hardly be in it — the 
middle of June : and I commonly return 
hither in September ; a month when 1 may 
more probably find you at home. 

Our defeat to be sure is a rueful affair, 
for the honour ot the troops ; but the duke 
is gone it seems with the rapidity of a can- 
non-bullet to undefeat us again. The com- 
mon people in town at ^east know how to be 
afraid : but we are such uncommon people 
here as to have no more sense of danger, 
than if the battle had been fought when and 
where the battle of Cannae was. The percep- 
tion of these calamities and^f their consequen- 
ces, that we are supposed to get from books, 
is so faintly impressed, that we talk of war, 
fanine, and pestilence, with no more appre- 
hension than of a broken head, or of a coach 
overturned between York and Edinburgh. I 
heard three people, sensible middle-aged 
men (when the Scotch were said to be at 
Stamford, and actually were at Derby), talk- 
ing of hiring a chaise to go to Caxton (a 
place in the high road, to see the Pretender 
and the highlanders as they passed. 

I can say no more for Mr. Pope (for what 
you keep in reserve may be worse than all 



176 

the rest). It is natural to wish the finest 
writer, one of them, we ever had, should be 
an honest man. It is for the interest even of 
that virtue, whose friend he professed him- 
self, and whose beauties he sung, that he 
should not be found a dirty animal. But, 
however, this is Mr. Warburton's business, 
not mine, who may scribble his pen to the 
stumps and all in vain, if these facts are so. 
It is not from what he told me about himself 
that I thought well of him, but from a hu- 
manity and goodness of heart, ay, and great- 
ness of mind, that runs through his private 
correspondence, not less apparent than are a 
thousand little vanities and weaknesses mix- 
ed with those good <pjalities; for nobody ever 
took him for a philosopher. 

If you know any thing of Mr. Mann's 
state of health and happiness, or the mo- 
tions of Mr. Chute homewards, it will be 
u particular favour to inform me of them, 
as I have not heard this half-j^ear from them. 



LXII. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Cambridge, December 11, 1746. 

I WOULD make you an excuse (as indeed I 



GRAY 6 LETTEili. 



ought), if iHey were a sort of thing I ever 
gave any credit to myself in these cases; but 
I know tliey are never true. Nothing so 
silly as indolence when it hopes to disguise 
itself; every one knows it hy its saunter, as 
they do his majesty (God bless him) at a 
masquerade, by the tirmness of his tread 
and the elevation of his chin. However, 
somewhat I had to say that Ins a little sha- 
dovy of reason in it. I have been in town 
(I suppose you know) flaunting about at all 
kind of public places with two friends latel}'' 
returned from abroad. The world itself 
has some attractions in it to a solitary of 
six years' standing: and agreeable well-mean- 
ing people of sense (thank heaven there 
are so few of them) are my peculiar magnet. 
h is no wonder then if I felt some reluctance 
t parting with them so soon; or if my spi- 
i its, when I returned back to my cell, should 
sink for a time, not indeed to storm and tem- 
pest, but a good deal below changeable. Be- 
sides, Seneca sa3's (and my pitch of philoso- 
phy does not pretend to be much above 
Seneca), "Nunquam mores, quos extuli, re- 
fero. Aliquid ex eo q-iod composui, turba- 
tur: aliquid ex his, quee fugavi, redit." And 
it will happen to such as us, mere imps of 
VOL. iv, ~ 12 



17S gray's letters. 

Science. Well it may, when Wisdom her- 
self is forced often 

In sweet retired solitude 
fo plume bar feathers, and let grow her wings, 
That in the various bustle of resort. 
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. 

It is a foolish thing that without money 
one cannot either live as one pleases, or 
where and with whom one pleases. Swift 
somewhere saj^s, that money is liberty; and 
I fear money is friendship too and society, 
and almost every external blessing. It is a 
great, though an ill-natured, comfort, to see 
most of those who have it in plenty, with- 
out pleasure, without liberty, and without 
friends, 

I am not altogether of your opinion as to 
your historical consolation in time of trouble: 
a calm melancholy it may produce, a stiller 
sort of despair) and that only in some cir- 
cumstances, and on some constitutions); but 
I doubt no real comfort or content can ever 
arise in the human mind, but from hope. 

I take it very ill you should have been in 
the twentieth year of the war,* and yet say 
nothing of the retreat before Syracuse: is it, 

•Thneydides, l.Tii. 



gray's i^etters. 179 

or is it not, the finest thing you ever read in 
your life? And how does Xenophon or Plu- 
tarch agree with you? For my part I read 
Aristotle, his poetics, politics, and morals; 
though I do not well know which is which. 
In the first place, he is the hardest author 
by far I ever meddled with. Then he has u 
dry conciseness that makes one imagine one 
is perusing a table of contents rather than a 
book: it tastes for all the world like chopped 
hay, or rather like chopped logic; for he 
has a violent affection to that art, being in 
some sort his own invention; so that he 
often loses himself in little trifling distinc- 
tions and verbal niceties; and, what is worse, 
leaves you to extricate him as well as you 
can. Thirdly, he has suffered vastly from 
the transcribblers, as all authors of great 
brevity necessarily must. Fourthly and 
lastly, he has abundance of fine uncommon 
things, which make him well worth the pains 
he gives one. You see what you are to ex- 
pect from him. 



180 gray's letters. 

LXIII. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Januaiy, 1747. 

It is doubtless an encouragement to continue 
writing to jou, when you tell me you answer 
me with pleasure: I have another reason 
which would make me very copious, had I 
any thing to say: it is, that I write to you 
with equal pleasure, though not with equal 
spirits, nor with like plenty of materials: 
please to subtract then so much for spirit, 
and so much for matter; and you will find 
me, I hope, neither so slow, nor so short, as 
I might otherwise seem. Besides, I had a 
mind to send you the remainder of Agrip- 
pina, that was lost in a wilderness of papers. 
Certainly you do her too much honour; she 
seemed to me to talk like an Oldboy., all in 
figures and mere poetry, instead of nature 
and the language of real passion. Do you 

remember Approchez-vous^^ Neron. Who 

would not rather have thought of that half 
line than all Mr. Rowe's llowers of elo- 
quence,? However, you will find the re- 

* Agrippjna, in Racine's tragedy of BritannicuSt B. 



gray's letters. 181 

raainder here at the end in an outrageous 
long speech: it was begun about four years 
ago (it is a misfortune you know my age, 
else I might have added, when I was very 
young.) Poor AVest put a stop to that tragic 
torrent he saw breaking in upon him: — have 
a care, I warn you, not to set open the flood- 
gate again, lest it drown you and me and the 
bishop and all. 

I am ver}^ sorry to hear you tr<»at philoso- 
phy and her followers like a parcel of monks 
and hermits, and think myself obliged to 
vindicate a profession 1 honour, bien que je 
n'en tienne pas boutique (as Madame Sevignc 
says). The first man that ever bore the 
name, if you remember, used to sa)^ that 
life was like the Olympic games (the great- 
est public assembly of his age and country), 
where some came to show their strength and 
agility of body, as the champions; others, as 
the musicians, orators, poets, and historians, 
to show their excellence in those arts; the 
traders, to get money; and the better sor(, to 
enjoy the spectacle, and judge of all these. 
They did not then run away from society 
for fear of its temptations: they passed their 
days in the midst of it: conversation was 
their business: they cultivated the arts of 
persuasion, on purpose to show men it wa^ 



102 gray's letters. 

their interest, as well as their duty, not to be 
foolish, and false, and unjust; and that too 
in many instances with success: which is not 
very strange; for they showed by their life 
that their lessons were not impracticable; 
and that pleasures were no temptations, but 
to such as wanted a clear perception of the 
pains annexed to them.* But I have done 
speaking a la Grecque. Mr. RatcHffej made 
a shift to. behave very rationally without 
their instructions, at a season which they took 
a great deal of pains to fortify themselves 
and others against: one would not desire to 
lose one's head with a better grace. I 
am particularly satisfied with the humanity 
of that last embrace to all the people 
about him. Sure it must be somewhat em- 
barrassing to die before so much good com- 
pany! 

You need not fear but posterity will be 

* Never perhaps was a more admirable picture drawn of true 
philosophy and its real and important sei-vjces ; servic«^s not con- 
linal to the speculative opinions of the studious, but adapted t« 
the common puiposes of life, and promoting the general happi- 
ness of mankind ; not upon the chimerical basis of a system, but 
on the immutable foundations of truth and virtue. B. ' 

t Brother to the earl of Derwentwater. He was executed at Ty- 
burn, December, 1746, for having been concerned in the febellioM 
in Scotland. B. 



gray's letters. 183 

ever glad to know the absurdity of their an- 
cestors: the foolish will be glad to know 
they were as foolish as they, and the wise 
will be glad to find themselves wiser. You 
will please all the world then; and if you 
recount miracles you will be believed so 
much the sooner. We are pleased when 
we wonder; and we believe because we 
are pleased. Folly and wisdom, and wonder 
and pleasure, join with me in desiring you 
would continue to entertain them: refuse us. 
if you can. Adieu, dear sirl 



LXIV. 



X TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Cambridge, 1747. 

I HAD been absent from this place a feu 
days, and at my return found Gibber's book* 
upon my table: I return you my thanks for 
it, and have already run over a considera- 
ble part, for who could resist Mrs. Letitia 
Pilkington's recommendation? (By the way, 

* Entitled " Observations on Cicero's Character," or some such 
thing : for I hare n«t the book by me, and it has been Ion?; since 
forget. 



184 GPtAY's LETTERS. 

is there any such gentlewoman?* or has 
somebody put on the style of a scribbling 
u'onjan's panegyric to deceive and laugh at 
Colley?) He seems to me full as pert and 
as dull as usual. There are whole pages of 
common-place stuff, that for stupidity might 
have been wrote by Dr. Waterland, or any 
other grave divine, did not the flirting saucy 
phrase give them at a distance an air of youth 
and gayety. It is very true, he is often in the 
right ivith regard to TuUy's weaknesses; 
but was there an}' one that did not see them? 
Those, I imagine, that would find a man after 
God's own heart, are no more likely to trus 
the doctor's recommendation than the play 
er's ; and as to reason and truth, would they 
know their own faces, do you think, if they 
looked in the glass, and saw themselves so 
bedizzened in tattered fringe and tarnished 
lace, in French jewels, and dirty furbelows, 
the frippery of a stroHcr's wardrobe? 

Literature, to take it in its most compre- 
liensive sense, and include every Jhing that 
requires invention or judgment, or barelj^ 
application and industry, seems indeed draw- 
ing apace to its dissolution, and remarkably 

* This lady inad<> herself aiore known some tii«c after the date 
»r this Jv^ter. 



gray's letters. 18o 

since the beginning of the war. I remember 
to have read Mr. Spence's pretty book: 
though (as he then had not been at Rome 
for the last time) it must have increased 
greatly since that in bulk. If you ask me 
what I read, I protest 1 do not recollect one 
syllable; but only in general, that they were 
the best bred sort of men in the world, just 
the kind off rinds one would wish to meet in 
a fine summer's evening, if one wished to 
meet jyiy at all. The heads and tails of the 
dialogues, published separate in 16mo. would 
make the sweetest reading in natiur for 
young gentlemen of family and fortune, that 
are learning to dance.* I rejoice to hear 
there is such a crowd of dramatical perform- 
ances coming upon the stage. Agrippina can 
stay very well, she thanks you, and be 
damned at leisure: I hope in God you have not 
mentioned, or showed to any body that scene 
(for, trusting in its badness, I forgot to cau- 
tion you concerning it); but I heard the 
other day, that I was writing a play,,and was 
told the name of it, which nobody here could 

* This ridicule on the Platonic way of dialogue (as it was aim- 
ed to be, though nothing less restmbles it) is, in my opinion, ad " 
jniraljle. Lord Shaftsbury was the first who brought it into 
vogue, and Mr. Spence, (if we except a few Scotch writers) the 
Ya^x who practised it. 



186 gray's letters. > 

know, I am sure. The employment you 
propose to me much better suits my inclina- 
tion; but I much fear our joint stock would 
hardly compose a small volume; what I 
have is less considerable than you would 
imagine, and of that little we should not be 
willing to publish all * * * * 

This is all I can any where find. You, I 
imagine, may have a good deal more. I 
should not care how unwise the ordinary run 
of readers might think my affection for him, 
provided those few, that ever loved any 
body, or judged of any thing rightly, might, 
from such little remains, be moved to con- 
sider what he vvould have been; and to wish 
that Heaven had granted him a longer life 
and a mind more at ease. 

I send you a few hne», though Latin, 
which you do not like, for the sake of the 
subject; it makes part of a large design, and 
i« the beginning of the fourth book, which 

• what is here omitted was a short catalogue of Mr. West's po- 
etry then in Mr. Gray's hands; the reader has seen as much of it 
as I am persuaded his frier.d would have published, had he prose- 
cuted the task which Mr. Walpole recommended to him, that of 
printing his own and Mr. West's poem* in the same volume : and 
■which we alio pergeive from tliis letter he was not averse from 
doing. 



gray's letters. 187 

was intended to treat of the passions. Ex- 
cuse^the three tirst verses; you know vanity, 
with the Romans, is a poetical licence. 



LXV. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Cambridge, 1747. 

I HAVE abundance of thaniis to return you 
for the entertainment Mr. Spence's book 
has given me, which I have almost run 
over already; and I much fear (see what it is 
to make a figure!) the breadth of the margin, 
and the neatness of the prints, which are 
better done than one could expect, have 
prevailed upon me to like it far better than I 
did in manuscript, for^ I think it is not the very 
genteel deportment of Polymetis, nor the 
lively wit of Mysagetes, that have at all cor- 
rupted me. 

There is one fundamental fault, from 
whence most of the little faults throughout 
the whole arise. He professes to neglect 
the Greek writers, who could have given 
him more instruction on the very heads he 
professes to treat, than all the others put 
together. Who does not know, that upon 



188 gray's letters. 

the Latin, the Sabine, and Hetniscan my- 
thology (which probably might themselves, 
at a remoter period of time, owe their ori- 
gin to Greece too) the Romans engrafted al- 
most the wliole religion of Greece to make 
what is called their own? It would be hard 
to find any one circumstance that is properly 
of their invention. In the ruder days of the 
republic, the picturesque part of their reli- 
gion (which is the province he has chose, 
and would be thought to confine himself to) 
was probably borrowed entirely from the 
Tuscans, who, as a wealthy and trading peo- 
ple, may be well supposed, and indeed arc 
known, to have had the arts flourishing in a 
considerable degree among them. What 
could inform him here, but Dio, Halicarnas- 
sus (who expressly treats of those times with 
great curiosity and industry) and the remains 
of the first Roman writers? The former he has 
neglected as a Greek; and the latter, he says, 
were but little acquainted with the arts, and 
consequently are but of small authority. In 
the better ages, when every temple ami 
public building in Rome was peopled with 
imported deities and heroes, and when all 
Jhe artists of reputation they made use of 
were Greeks, what wonder, if their eyes 
grew familiarized to Grecian forms and hab- 



oray's letters. 189 

its (especially in a matter of this kind, where 
so much depends upon the imagination); and 
if those figures introduced with them a belief 
of such fables, as first gave them being, and 
dressed them ont in their various attributes, 
it was natural then, and (I should think) 
necessary, to go to the source itself, the 
Greek accounts of their own religion; but, 
to say the truth, I suspect he was little con- 
versant in those books and that language; 
for he rarely quotes any but Lucian, an au- 
thor that falls in every body's way, and who 
lived at the very extremity of that period 
hs has set to his inquiries, later than any of 
the poets he has meddled with, and for that 
reason ought to have been regarded as but 
an indifferent authority; especially being a 
Syrian too. His book (as he says himself) 
is, I think, rather a beginning than a perfect 
work; but a beginning at the wrong end: for 
if any body should finish it by inquiring into 
the Greek mythology, as he proposes, it will 
be necessary to read it backward. 

There are several little neglects, that one 
might have told him of, which I noted in 
reading it hastily; as page 311, a discourse 
about orange trees, occasioned by Virgil's 
"inter odoratum lanri nemus," where he 
fancies the Roman Laurus to be our Laurel; 



190 gray's letters. 

though undoubtedly the bay-tree, which is 
odoratum, and, I believe, still called Lauro, 
or AUoro, at Rome; and that the "Malum. 
Medicujn" in the Georgic is the orange; 
though Theophrastus, whence Virgil bor- 
rowed it, or even Pliny, whom he himself 
quotes, might convince him it is the cedrato 
which lie has often tasted at Florence. Page 
144 is an account of Domenichino's Cardinal 
Virtues, and a fling at the Jesuits, neither of 
which belong to them: the painting is in a 
church of the Barnabiti, dedicated to St. Carlo 
Borromeo, whose motto is Humilitas. Page 
131 , in a note, he says, the old Romans did not 
regard Fortune as a deity; though Servius 
Tullius (whom she was said to be in love 
with; nay, there was actually an affair be- 
tween them) founded her temple in Foro Bo- 
ario. By the way, her worship was Greek, and 
this king was educated in the family of Tar- 
quinius Priscus, whose father was a Corin- 
thian; so it is easy to conceive how early 
the religion of Rome might be Eoixed with 
that of Greece, &;c. &c. 

Dr. Middleton has sent me to-day a book 
on the Roman Senate^ the substance of a dis- 
pute between lord Hervey and him, though 
it never interrupted their friendship, he 
says, and I dare say not. 



gray's letters. 191 

LXVI. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Cambridge, March 1, 1747. 

As one ought to be particularly careful 
to avoid blunders in a compliment of condo- 
lence, it would be a sensible satisfaction to 
me (before I testify my sorrow, and the sin- 
cere part I take in your misfortune) to know 
for certain, who it is I lament. I knew^ 
Zara and Selima, (Selima, was it, or Fatima?) 
or rather I knew them both together; for I 
cannot justly say which was which. — Then 
as to your handsome cat, the name you dis- 
tinguish her by, I am no less at a loss, as 
well knowing one's handsome cat is always 
the cat one hkes best; or, if one be ahve and 
the other dead, it is usually the latter that is 
the handsomest. Besides, if the point were 
never so clear, I hope you do not think me 
so ill-bred or so imprudent as to forfeit all 
my interest in the survivor: Oh no! 1 would 
jrather seem to mistake, and imagine to be 
sure it must be the tabby one that had met 
with this sad accident. Till this affair is a 
little better determined, you will excuse me 
if I do not begin to cry; 



192 gray's letter?.- 

" Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatiumque doloris." 

Which interval is the more convenient, as it 
gives time to rejoice with you on your new- 
honours.* This is only a beginning ; I 
reckon next week we shall hear you are a 
free-mason, or a gormogon at least. — Heigh 
hoi I feel (as you to be sure have done long 
since) that I have very little to say, at least 
in prose. Somebody will be the better for it; 
I do not mean you, but your cat, feue made- 
moiselle Selime, whom I am about to immor- 
talize for one week or fortnight, as follows:! 
* * *— There's a poem for you; it is rather 
too long for an epitaph. 

LXVII. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Stoke, June 5,1748, 

Your friendship has interested itself in my 

• Mr. Walpole was about lliis time elected a Fellow of the Rcyal 
Society. 

t The reader need hardly be told,?that the 4th ode in the collec- 
tion of bis |)oems was inserted in the place of these asterisks. This 
letter (as some other slight ones have been) is piiiited chiefly to 
ra«rk the date of one cf his compositions. 



gray's letters. 193 

aflairs so nfiturally, that I cannot help troub- 
ling you a little with a detail of them. 
vf*-**^***** ^^f\ now, my dear Whar- 
ton, why must I tell you a thing so contrary 
to my own wishes and yours? I believe it is 
impossible for me to see you in the north, 
or to enjoy any of those agreeable hours I 
had flattered myself with. This business 
will oblige me to be in town several times 
during the summer, particularly in August, 
when half the money is to be paid; besides 
the good people here would think me the 
most careless and ruinous of mortals, if I 
should take such a journey at this time. The 
only satisfaction I can pretend to, is that of 
hearing from you, and particularly at this 
time when I was bid to expect the good news 
of an increase of your family. Your opin- 
ion of Diodorus is doubtless right; but there 
are things in him very curious, got out of 
better authorities now lost. Do )'ou remem- 
ber the Egyptian history, and particularly 
the account of the gold mines ? My own 
readings have been cruelly interrupted : 

* The paragraph here omitted contained an account of Mi*. 
Gray's loss of a house by fire in Cornhill, and the ixpense he should 
be at ia rebuilding it. Though it wasf insured, he could at thi* 
time ill bear to lay out the additional suru necessary for the pur- 
pose. 

VOL. IV, 13 



194 gray's letters. 

What I have been highly pleased with, is 
the new comedy from Paris by Gresset, 
called le Mechant; if you have it not, buy 
his works all together in two little volumes : 
they are collected by the Dutch booksellers, 
and consequently contain some trash; but 
then there are the Ververt, the epistle to 
P. Bougeant, the Chartreuse, that to his sis- 
ter, an ode on his country,- and another on 
mediocrity, and the Sidnei, another comedy, 
all which have great beauties. There is 
also a poem lately published by Thomson, 
called the Castle of Indolence, with some 
good stanzas in it. Mr. Mason is my ac- 
quaintance; I liked that ode* much, but 
have found no one else that did. He has 

• Ode to a Water Nymph, ijublished about this time in Dodsley's 
miscellany. On reading what follows, many readers, I suspect, will 
think me as simple as ever, in forbearing to expunge the para- 
graph: but as I publish Mr. Gray s sentiments of authors, as well 
living as dead, without reserve, I should do them injustice, if I 
was more scrupulous with respect to myself. My friends, I am 
sure, will be much amused with tliis and another passage hereafter 
of a like sort. My enemies, if they please, may sneer at it ; and 
.say (which they will very truly) that twenty-five yeais have made a 
▼ery considei-able abatement in my general philanthropy. Meu of the 
world will not blame me for writing from so prudent a motive, as 
that of making my fortune by it ; and yet the truth, I believe, at 
the time was, that I was perfectly well satisfied, if my publications, 
rijmisbed me with a few guineas to see a play v an opera. 



gray's letters. 195 

much fancy, little judgment, and a good deal 
of modest}'; J take him for a good and well- 
meaning creature; but then he is really in 
simplicity a child, and loves every body he 
meets with: he reads little or nothing; writes 
abundance, and that with a design to make 
his fortune by it. My best compliments to 
Mrs. Wharton and your family: does that 
name include any body I am not yet ac- 
quainted with ? 



^ LXVIII, 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Stoke, August 19, 1748: 

I AM glad you have had any pleasure in 
Gresset; he seems to me a truly elegant and 
charming writer; the Mechant is the best 
comedy I ever read; his Edward I could 
scarce get through; it is puerile; though 
there are good lines, such as this for exam- 
ple: 

" Le jour d'un Douveau regne est le jour des ingrats.'* 

But good lines will make any thing rather 
than a good play: however you are to con- 



196 gray's letters. 

sider this as a collection made up by the 
Dutch booksellers; many things unfinished, 
or written in his youth, or designed not for 
the world, but to make his friends laugh, as 
the Liitrin vivant, &c. There are two noble 
lines, which, as they are in the middle of an 
ode to the king, may perhaps have escaped 
you: 

" Le cri d'un peuple heureux est la seule eloquence 
" Qui scait parler des Rois." 

Which is very true, and should have been a 
hint to himself not to write odes to the king 
at all. 

As I have nothing more to say at present, 
I fill my paper with the beginning of an es- 
say; what name to give it 1 know not; but 
the subject is the alliance of Education and 
Government:* 1 mean to show that they 
miist both concur to produce great and use- 
ful men. I desire your judgment upon it 
before I proceed any further. 

* See Poems. 



gray's letters. 197 



LXIX. 



TO DR. WHARTON. 

Cambridge, March 9, 1748-9. 

You ask for some account of books. The 
principal I can tell you of is a work of the 
President Montesquieu, the labour of twenty 
years; it is called L'Esprit des Loix, 2 vols. 
4to. printed at Geneva. He lays down the 
principles on which are founded the three 
sorts of government, despotism, the limited 
monarchy, and the republican; and shows 
how from these are deduced the laws and 
customs by which they are guided and main- 
tained; the education proper to each form; 
the influence of climate, situation, religion, 
&c. on the minds of particular nations and 
on their policy. The subject, you see, is 
as extensive as mankind; the thoughts per- 
fectly new, generally admirable as they are 
just, sometimes a little too refined. In 
short, there are faults, but such as an ordi- 
nary man could never have committed. 
The style very lively and concise (conse- 
quently sometimes obscure); it is the gravity 
of Tacitus, whom he admires, tempered with 
the gayety and fire of a Frenchman, The 



198 gray's letters. 

time of night will not suffer me to go on: 
but I will write again in a week. 



LXX. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Cambridge, April 25, 1749. 

I PERCEIVE that second parts are as bad to 
write as they can be to read; for this, which 
you ought to have had a week after the 
tirst, has been a full month in coming forth. 
The spirit of laziness (the spirit of the place) 
begins to possess even me, who have so 
long declaimed against it; yet has it not so 
prevailed, but that 1 feel that discontent 
with myself, that ennui, that ever accompa- 
nies it in its beginnings Time will settle 
my conscience; time will reconcile me to 
this languid companion: We shall smoke, we 
shall tipple, we shall doze together: we 
shall have our little jokes like other people, 
and our old stories: brandy will finish what 
port began; and a month after the time you 
will see in some corner of a London even- 
ing post, " Yesterday dic^d the reverend Mr. 
.John Gray, senior fellow of Clare-Hall, a 
facetious companion, and well respected by 



GRAY*S LETTERS. 199 

all that knew him. His death is supposed 
to have been occasioned by a tit of an apo- 
plexy, being found fallen out of bed with his 
head in the chamber-pot." 

In the meanwhile, to go on with my ac- 
count of new books Montesquieu's work, 
which I mentioned before, is now publish- 
ing anew in 2 vols, 8vo. Have you seen 
old Crebillion's Calalina, a tragedy, which 
has had a prodigious run at Paris? Histori- 
cal truth is too much perverted in it, which 
is ridiculous in a story so generally' known; 
but if you can get over this, the sentiiisents 
and versification are tine, and most of the 
characters (particularly the principal one) 
tainted with great Spirit. 

Mr. Birch, the indefatigable, has just put 
out a thick octavo of original papers of 
queen Elizabeth's time; there are many 
curious things in it, particularly letters from 
Sir Robert Cecil (Salisbury) about his ne- 
gociations with Henry IV. of France, the 
earl of Monmouth's odd account of queen 
Elizabeth's death, several peculiarities of 
•lames I. and prince IJenry, &c. and above 
all, an excellent account of the state of 
France, with characters of the king, his 
court, and ministry, by Sir George Carew, 
ambassador thero._ This. I think, is al! new 



200 gray's letters. 

worth mentioning, that I have seen or heard 
of; except a Natural History of Peru, in 
Spanish, printed at London, by Don — — 
something, a man of learning, sent thither by 
that court on purpose. 

You ask after mj chronology. It was 
began, as I told you, almost two years ago, 
when I was in the midst of Diogenes Laer- 
tins and his philosophers, as a prooemium to 
their works. My intention in forming this 
table was not so much for public events, 
though these too have a column assigned 
them, but rather in a literary way to com- 
pare the time of all great men, their writings 
and their transactions. I have brought it 
from the 30th Olympiad, where it begins, to 
the 113th; that is, 332 years. ^- My only 
modern assistants were Marsham, Dodwell, 
and Bentley. 

1 have since that read Pausanias and Athe- 
fia?.us all through, and .^schylus again. I 
im now in Pindar and Lysias; for I take 
verse and prose together, like bread and 
rlieese. 

* This lalx>vious work was formed much in the manner of the 
President Renault's " Histoire de France." Every page consisted 
of nine columns ; one for the Olympiad, the next for the Archons, 
the third for the public affairs of Greece, the three next for tlie 
philosophers, and the three last for poets, historians, and orator' 
T do not find it earned fuithcr than the date above mentioned. 



GRAY'S LETTERS. 201 



LXXI. 



TO DR. WHARTON. 



Cambridge, Aug;ust 8, 1749. 

I PROMISED Dr. Keene long since to give 
you an account of our nriagnilicences here;* 
but the newspapers and he himself in per- 
son, have got the start of my indolence, so 
that by this time you are well acquainted 
with ail the events that adorned that week 
of wonders. Thus much I may venture to 
tell you, because it is probable nobody else 
has done it, that our friend *■ *"'s zeal and 
eloquence surpassed all power of descrip- 
tion. Vesuvio in an eruption was not more 
violent than his utterance, nor (since I am 
at my mountains) Pelion, with all its pine- 
trees in a storm of wind, more impetuous 
than his action; and yet the senate-house 
still stands, and (I thank God) we are all 
safe and well at your service. I was ready 
10 sink for him, and scarce dared to look 
about me, when I was sure it was all over; 
but soon found I might have spared my con- 

• The Duke of Newcastle's Installation as CLancellov of tfct 
University. 



202 gray's letters. 

fusion; all people joined to applaud him. 
Every thing was quite right; and I dare 
swear not three people here but think him a 
model of oratory; for all the duke's little 
court came with a resolution to be pleased; 
and when the tone was once given, the uni- 
versity, who ever vvait for the judgment of 
their betters, struck into it with an admira- 
ble harmony: for the rest of the perform- 
ances, they were just what they usually are. 
Every one, while it lasted, was very gay 
and very busy in the morning, and very 
owlish and very tipsy at night: I make no 
exceptions from the chancellor to blue-coat. 
Mason's ode was the only entertainment 
that had any tolerable elegance; and, for 
my own part, I think it (with some little 
abatements) uncommonly well on such an 
occasion. Pray let me know your senti- 
ments; for doubtless you have seen it. The 
author of it* grows apace into my good 
graces, as 1 know bim more; he is very in- 
genious, with great good-nature and simpli- 
city; a little vain, but in so harmless and 
so comical a way, that it does not offend 
one at all; a little ambitious, but withal so 
ignorant in the world and its ways, that this 
does not hurt him in one's opinion; so sin- 
cere and so undisguised, that no mind, with 



gray's letters. 203 

a spark of generosity, vvould ever think of 
hurting hiai, he lies so open to injury; but 
so indolent, that if he cannot overcome this 
habit, all his good qualities will signify noth- 
ing at all. After all, I like him so well, 
I could wish you knew him. 



LXXII. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Cambridge, Nor. 7, 1749. 

The unhappy news I have just received 
from you equally surprises and afflicts me.* 
I have lost a person I loved very much, and 
have been used to from my infancy; but am 
much more concerned for your loss, the 
circumstances of which I forbear to dwell 
upon, as you must be too sensible of them 
yourself; and will, I fear, more and more 
need a consolation that no one can give, 
except He who has preserved her to you so 
many years, and at last, when it was his 

* The death of his aunt, Mrs Mary Antrobus, who died the 
5th of Noverabtr, aiid was buried in a vault in Stoke church-yard, 
near the chancel door, io which also his mother and himself (ac- 
cording to the diitiction in bis will) were ftfterwards buried. 



264 GRAY'S LETTERS. 

pleasure, has taken her from us to himself: 
and perhaps, if we reflect upon what she 
felt in this life, we may look upon this as an 
instance of his goodness both to her, and 
to those that loved her. She might have 
languished many years before our eyes in a 
continual increase of pain, and totally help- 
less; she might have long wished to end her 
misery without being able to attain it; or 
perhaps even lost all sense, and yet conti- 
nued to breathe; a sad spectacle to such as 
must have felt more for her than she could 
have done for herself. However you may 
deplore your own loss, yet think that she is 
at last easy and happy; and has now more 
occasion to pity us than we her. I hope, 
and beg, you will support yourself with that 
resignation we owe to Him, who gave us 
our being for our good, and who deprives 
us of it for the same reason. I would have 
come to you directly, but you do not say 
whether you desire I should or not; if you 
do, I beg 1 may know it, for there is nothing 
to hinder me, and I am in very good health. 



GRAY'S LETTERS. 205 

LXXIII. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Stoke, June 12, 1750. 

As 1 live in a place, where even the ordi- 
nary tattle of the town arrives not till it is 
stale, and which produces no events of its 
own, you will not desire any excuse from me 
for writing so seldom, especially as of all 
people living i know you are the least a 
friend to letters spun out of one's own brains, 
with all the toil and constraint that accom- 
panies sentimental productions. I have been 
here at Stoke a few days (where I shall conti- 
nue good part of the summer); and having put 
an end to a thing, whose beginning you have 
seen long ago, I immediately send it you..* 
You will, I hope, look upon it in the light of 
a thing with an end to it ; a merit that most 
of my writings have wanted, and are like to 
want, but which this epistle 1 am determin- 
ed shall not want, when it tells you that I 
am ever 

Youris. 

* This was the Elegr in the church yard.— B. 



206 GRAv's LETTERS. 

Not that I have done yet; but who could 
avoid tlie temj)tation of finishing so roundly 
and so cleverly in the manner of good queen 
Anne's days? Now I have talked of writings; 
I have seen a book, which is by this time in 
the press, against Middieton (though without 
naming him), by Asheton. As far as I can 
judge from a very hasty reading, there are 
things in it new and ingenious, but rather too 
prolix, and the style here and there savour- 
ing too strongly of sermon. 1 imagine it will 
do him credit So much for other people, 
now to self again. You are desired to tell 
me your opinion, if you can take the pains, 
of these lines. I am once more 

Ever yours. 



LXXIV. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Stoke, August 9, 1750. 

Aristotle says (one may write "^nc t;k to 
you without scandal) that 0< rtnot tv huXv6vfft 
TJjy 0t>iietv UTrXugy uXXu, t»jv ivi^yitctv itnv ^i x^ovte^ 
4} etToviTix ymviTXt Ktti rvti (ptXixs ocku X^dviv tfciuv^ 



gray's letters. 207 

But Aristotle may say whatever he pleases, 
I do not find myself at all the worse for it. 
1 could indeed wish to refresh mj'^ Eniyiix 
a little at Durham by the sight of you, but 
when is there a- probability of my being so 
happy? It concerned me greatly when I 
heard the other day that your asthma con • 
tinued at times to afflict you, and that you 
were often obliged to go into the country to 
breathe; you cannot oblige me more than by 
giving me an account both of the state of 
your bodj^ and mind: I hope the latter is 
able to keep you cheerful and easy in spite 
of the frailties of its companion. As to my 
own, it can neither do one nor the other; 
and I have the mortification to find my spi- 
ritual part the most infirm thing about me. 
You have doubtless heard of the loss I have 
had in Dr. Middleton, whose house was the 
only easy place one could find to converse 
m at Cambridge: for my part, I find a friend 
so uncommon a thing, that I cannot help re- 
gretting even an old acquaintance, which is 
an indifferent likeness of it; and though 1 do 
not approve of the spirit of his books, me- 
thinks 'tis pity the world should lose so rare 
a thing as a good writer.* 

* Mr. Gray used to say, that good writing not only required 
great parts, but the vei7 best of tliose parts. 



208 gray's letters. 

My studies cannot furnish a recommendation 
of many new books to you. There is a de- 
fence "de I'Esprit des Loix," by Montes- 
quieu himself; it has some lively things in 
it, but is very short, and his adversary ap- 
pears to be so mean a bigot that he deserved 
no answer. There are 3 vols, in 4to. of 
"Histoire du Cabinet du Roi, by Messrs. 
Bufibn and d'Aubentonf ' the first is a man 
of character, but I am told has hurt it by this 
work. It is all a sort of introduction to na- 
tural history; the weak part of it is a love 
of system which runs through it; the most 
contrary thing in the world to a science en- 
tirely grounded upon experiments, and which 
has nothing to do with vivacit}' of imagina- 
tion. However, I cannot help commending 
the general view which he gives of the face 
of the earth, followed by a particular one of 
all the known nations, their peculiar figure 
and manners, which is the best epitome of 
geography I ever met with, and written with 
sense and elegance; in short, these books 
are well worth turning over. The memoirs 
of the Abbe de Mongon, in 5 vols, are highly 
commended, but i have not seen them. He 
was engaged in several embassies to Germn- 
ny, England, kc. during the course of the 
late war. The president HeaauU's "Abrtge 



GRAV'S LETTERS. 209 

Chronologiqne de I'Histoire de France," I 
believe I "have mentioned to you as a very 
good book of its kind. 



LXXV. 

TO DR. V/HARTO&f. 

Dec. 17, 17*0, 

Of my house I cannot say much,* I vvish I 
could; but for my heart, it is no less yours 
than it has long been; and the last thing in 
the world that will throw it into tumults is a 
fine lady. The verses, you so kindly try to 
keep in countenance, were written merely 
to divert lady Cobham and her family, and 
succeeded accordingly; but being showed 
about in town, are not liked there at alK 
Mrs. *■ *, a very fashionable personage, told 
Mr. VValpole that she had seen a thing by a 
friend of his which she did not know what to 
make of, for it aimed at every thing, and 
meant nothing; to which he replied, that he 
had always taken her for a woman of sense, 
and was very sorry to be undeceived. On 

* The house he was rebuilding in Comhill. 

-y^ ir. 14 



210 gray's letters. 

the other hand, the stanzas* which I now 
enclose to you have had the mislortune, by 
Mr. Walpole's fault, to be made still more 
public, for- which they certainly were never 
meant; but it is too late to complain They 
have been so applauded, it is quite a shame 
to repeat it: I mean not to be modest; but 
it is a shame for those who have said such 
superlative things about them, that i cannot 
repeat them. I should have been glad that 
you and two or three more people had liked 
them, which would have satisfied my ambi- 
tion on this head amply. 1 have been this 
month in town, not at Newcastle-House, but 
diverting myself among my gay acquaintance; 
and return to my cell with so much the 
more pleasure. I dare not speak of my fu- 
ture excursion to Durham for fear of a dis- 
appointment, but at present it is my full 
intention. 



LXXVI. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Cambridge, Feb. II, 1751. 

As you have brought me into a little sort of 

* Elegy in a country church-yard. 



gray's LETTEjlS. 211 

distress, you must assist me, I believe, to g:et 
out of it as well as I can. Yesterday I had 
the misfortune ofreceivinga letter from cer- 
tain gentlemen (as their bookseller expresses 
it^ who have taken the magazine of maga- 
zines into their hands: they tell me that an 
ingenious poem, called Reflections in a Coun- 
try Church-yard, has been communicated to 
them, which they are printing forthwith; 
that they are informed that the exccflent au- 
thor of it is I by name, and that they beg not 
only his indulgence^ but the honour of his 
correspondence, &c. As I am not at all dis- 
posed to be either so indulgent, or so corre- 
spondent, as they desire, I have but one bad 
way left to escape the honour they would 
inflict upon me; and therefore am obliged to 
desire you would make Dodsley print it im- 
mediately (which may be done in less than a 
week's time) from your copy, but without 
my name, in what form is most convenient 
for him, but on his best paper and character; 
he must correct the press himself, and print 
it without any interval between the stanzas, 
because the sense is in some places continued 
beyond them; and the title must be, — Elegy, 
written in a country church-yard. If he 
woild add a line or two to say it came into 
his hands by accident, I should like it better. 



212 gray's letters. 

If you behold the magazine of magazines in 
the light that I do, you will not refuse to give 
yourself this trouble on my account, which 
you have taken of your own accord before 
now. If Dodsley do not do this immediat^y^ 
he may as well let it alone. 



LXXVII. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Ash-Wednesday, Cambridge, 1751. 

You have indeed conducted with great de- 
cency my little misfortune : you have taken 
a paternal care of it, and expressed much 
more kindness than could have been expect- 
ed from so near a relation. But we are all 
frail; and I hope to do as much for you an- 
other time. Nurse Dodsley has given it a 
pinch or two in the cradle, that (I doubt) it 
will bear the marks of as long as it lives. But 
no matter: we have ourselves suffered un- 
der her hands before now; and besides, it 
will only look the more careless and by ac- 
cident as it were. I thank you for your ad- 
vertisement, which saves my honour, and in 
manner bien flatteuse pour moi, who should 
be put to it even to make myself a compli- 
ment in good English. 



gray's letters. 213 

You will take me for a mere poet, and a 
fetcher and carrier of singsong, if I tell you 
that 1 intend to send you the beginning of a 
drama;* not mine, thank God, as you'll be- 
lieve, when you hear it is finished, but 
wrote by a person whom I have a very good 
opinion of. It is (unfortunately) in the man- 
ner of the ancient drama, with choruses, 
which I am, to my shame, the occasion of: 
for, as great part of it was at first written in 
that form, I would not suffer him to change 
it to a play fit for tiie stage, as he intended, 
because the lyric parts are the best of it, 
and they must have been lost. The stor}' 
is Saxon, and the language has a tang of 
Shakspeare, that suits an old fashioned fable 
very well. In short, I don't do it merely 
to amuse you, but for the sake of the author, 
who wants a judge, and so I would lend hira 
mine: yet not without your leave, lost you 
should have us up to dirty our stockings at 
the bar of your house for wasting the time 
and politics of the nation. Adieu, sir! 

* This was the Elfrida of Mr. Masgn.-B. 



£14 gray's letters. 

LXXVIII. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Cambridge, March 3, 1751, 

Elfrida ^for that is the f^iir one's name) and 
her author are now in town together. He 
has promised me, that he will send a part of 
it to you some morning while he is there; 
and (if you shall think it worth while to 
descend to particulars) I should be glad you 
ivould tell me very freely your opinion 
about it; for he shall know nothing of the 
m;itter, that is not fit for the ears of a 
tender parent — though, by the way, he has 
ingenuity and merit enough (whatever his 
drama may have) to bear hearing his faults 
very patiently. 1 must only beg you not to 
show it, much less let it be copied; for it 
will be published, though not as yet. 

I do not expect any more editions,* as I 
have appeared in more magazines than one. 
The chief errita were sacrtd bower for 
secret ; hidd-n for kindred (in spite of dukes 
and classics); -awA frowning as in scorn for 
smiling. I humbly propose, for the benefit 

* Of the Elegy in the church-yard,~B. 



215 

of Mr. Dodsley and his matrons, that take 
awake for a verb, that they should read 
asleep, and all will be right.* Gil Bias is 
the Lying Valet in five acts. The tine 
lady has half-a-dozen good lines dispersed in 
it. Pompey is the hasty production of a 
Mr. Coventry (cousin to him you knew), 
a young clergyman: I found it out by three 
characters, which once mrtde part of a come- 
dy that he showed me of his own writing. 
Has that miracle of tendfrnrsx and sensihUity 
(as she calls it) lady V.ine given 3^ou any 
amusement? Peregrine, whom she uses as a 
vehicle, is very poor indeed, with a few 
exceptions. In the last volume is a charac- 
ter of Mr. Lyttelton, under the name of 
Gosling Scrag, and a parody of part of his 
monody, under the notion of a pastoral on 
the death of his grandmother. 

* The verse tq,wLich he alludes is this : 

" Ev'n from the tomb tlie voice of nature cries ; 
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires." 

rhe last line of which he ha.l at first written thus : 

" Awake and faithful to her woMed fires.'"— 3. 



216 gray's letters. 



LXXIX. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Nov. Tuesday, Cambridge. 

It is a misfortune to me to be at a distance 
from both of you at present. A letter can 
give one so little idea of such matters ! 
* * * * 1 always believed well of his heart 
and temper, and would gladly do so still. 
If they are as they should be, I should have 
expected every thing from such an explana- 
tion; for it is a tenet with me (a simple one, 
you'll perhaps say), that if ever two people, 
who love one another, come to breaking, it 
is for want of a timel}' eclaircisseraent, a full 
and precise one, without witnesses or media- 
tors, and without reserving any one disa- 
greeable circumstance for the mind to brood 
upon in silence. 

1 am not totally of your mind as to Mr. 
Lyttelton's elegy, though I love kids and 
fawns as little as you do. If it were all like 
the fourth stanza, I should be excessively 
pleased. Nature and sorrow, and tender- 
ne=53, are the true genius of such things; and 
something of these I find in several parts of 
it Tnot in the orange-tree): poetical orna- 



gray's letters. 217 

ments are foreign to the purpose, for they 
only show a man is not sorry; — and devotion 
worse; for it teaches him, that he ought not 
to be sorry, which is all the pleasure of the 
thing. 1 beg leave to turn your weather- 
cock the contrary way. Your epistle* I 
have not seen a great while, and doctor M. 
is not in the way to give me a siffht of it: 
but I remember enough to be sure all the 
world will be pleased with it, even with all 
its faults upon Hs head, if you don't care to 
mend them. I would try to do it mjself 
(however hazardous), rather than it should 
remain unpublished. As to my Eton ode, 
Mr. Dodsley is padrone.] The secondj 
you had, I suppose you do ngt think worth 
gjving him: otherwise, to me it seems not 
worse than the former. He might have 
Selima§ too, unless she be of too little im- 
portance for his patriot collection; or per- 
haps the connexions you had with her may 
interfere. Che so io ? Adieu ! 

* From Florence to Thomas Asheion.— B. 
t To publish in his collection of poems.— B. 
t The ode to Spring.— B. 

^ The ode on Mr. Walpole's cat drowned in the tub of goU-fisli. 

-B. 



218 



LXXX. 

TO MR. WALFOLE. 

Cambridge, Dec Moodaj. 

This comes du fond de ma cellule (o tialute 
Mr. H- W. not so much him that visits und 
votes, and goes to White's and to court; as 
the H, W. in his rural capacity, snug ii- his 
tub on Windsor-hill, aiid brooding over folios 
of his own creation: him that can slip away, 
like a pregnant beauty (but a little oftener,) 
into the country, be brought to bed perhaps 
of twins, and whisk to town again the week 
after with a fixce as if nothing had happened. 
Among all the little folks, my godsons and 
daughters, I cannot choose but inquire more 
particularly after the health of one; I mean 
(without a tigure) the Memoirs:* Do they 
grow? Do they unite, and hold up their 
beads, and dress themselves? Do they be- 
gin to think of making their appearance in 
the world, that is to. say, tifty years hence, 
to make po&lerity stare, and all good people 
cross themselves? Has Asheton (who will 
be then lord bishop of Killaloe, and is to 

• Memoirs of his o\^-n time, which ]Mi-. Walpole was then writ- 
ing.— B. 



gray's letters. 219 

pnblish them) thought of an aviso al lettore 
to !;rf'iix to them yet, importing, that if the 
words ch'irch, king, religion, ministry, &.C. 
be found often repeated in this book, they 
are not to be taken Hterally, but poetical- 
ly, and as may be most strictly reconcileable 
to the fiith then established; — that he knevr 
the author well when he was a young man; 
and can testify upon the honour of his func- 
tion, that he said his prayers regularly and 
devoutly, had a profound reverence for the 
clersjy, and firmly believed every thing that 
was the fashion in those days? 

When you have done impeaching my lord 
Lovat, I hope to hear de vos nouvelles, and 
moreover, whether you have got colonel 
Conway yet? Whether sir C. Williams is to 
go to Berlin? What sort of a prince Mi- 
tridate may be? — and whatever other tidings 
you choose to refresh an anchoret with. 
Fniilanto I send you a scene in a tragedy:* 
if it don't make you cry, it will make you 
laugh; and so it moves some passion, that I 
take to be enough. Adieu, dear sirl I am, Lc. 

* The first scene in Mr, Gray's unfinished tragedy cf Agrippi- 
na, published in Mr. Mason's tditiou of his wtrks.— B. 



220 GRA¥'S LETTERS. 



LXXXI. 



TO MR, WALPOLE. 



Cambridge, October 8, 1751. 

I SEND you this* (as you desire) merely to 
make up half-a-dozen; though it will hardly 
answer your end in furnishing out either a 
head or tail-piece. But your own fablej 
may much better supply the place. You 
have altered it to its advantage; but there is 
still something a little embarrassed here and 
there in the expression. I rejoice to find 
you apply (pardon the use of so odious a 
word) to the history of your own times. 
Speak, and spare not. Be as impartial as 
you can; and after all, the world will not be- 
lieve you are so, though you should make as 
many protestations as bishop Burnet. They 
will feel in their own breast, and find it very 
po-sible to hate fourscore persons, yea, 
ninety and nine: so you must rest satisfied 
with the testimony of your own conscience. 
Somebody has laughed at Mr. Dodsley, or 
at me, when they talked of the bat : I have 

* The hymn to adversity.— B. 
t The entail.— B. 



gray's letters. 221 

nothing moi^e, either nocturnal or diurnal, to 
deck his miscellany with. We have a man 
here that writes a good hand; but lie has lit- 
tle r'aihngs that hinder my recommending hina 
to you,* He is lousy, and he is mad: he 
sets out this week for Bedlam; but if you 
insist upon it, I don't doubt he will pay his 
re>^pects to you. i have seen two of Dr. 
Middleton's unpublished woriis. One is 
abo it 44 pages in 4to. against Dr. Water- 
land, who wrote a very orthodox book on 
the importance of the doctrine of the Trini- 
ty, and insi'^ted, that Christians ought to have 
no commtinion with such as differ from them 
in fundamentals. Middleton enters no fir- 
ther into the doctrine itself than to show that 
a mere speculative point can never be 
called a fundamental; and that the earlier 
fathers, on whose concurrent tradition 
Waterland would build, are so far, when 
they speak of the three persons, from agree- 
ing with the present notion of our church, 
that they declare for the inferiority of the 
son, and seem to have no clear and distinct 
idea of the Holy Ghost at all. The rest is 
employed in exposing the folly and cruelty 
of stiffness and zealotism in religion, and in 

* As an amanuensis. B. 



222 GRAY*S LETTERS, 

showing tbnt the primitive ages of the church, 
in which tradition had its rise, were (even 
by confession of the best scholars and most 
orthodox writers) the ccra cf vcmcnse and 
ab.stirdity. It is finished, and very well 
wrote; but has been mostly incorporated in- 
to his other works particularly the Inquiry: 
and for this reason I suppose he has writ 
upon it. This whotly lend abide. The second 
is in Latin, on miracles; to show, that of the 
two methods of defending Christianity, one 
frcm its intrinsic evidence, the holiness and 
purity of its doctrines, the other from its ex- 
ter-^al, the ntiracles said to be wrout^ht to 
confirm it; the first has been little attended 
to by reason of its difficulty; the second 
much insisted upon, because it appeared an 
easier task; but that it can in rejdity prove 
nothing at all. "Nobilis iha quidem defen- 
sio (the first) quam si obtinere potuissent, 
rem simul omnem expediisse, causamque pe- 
nitus vicisse viderentur. At causae hujiis 
defv ndendgB labor cum tanta argumentnndi 
cavillandique molestia conjunctus ad alterism, 
quam dixi, defensioni^^ viam, ut commodiort ra 

longe et faciliorem, plerosque adegit tgo 

vero istiusmodi defensione religitnem los- 
tram non modo non conhimari, sed dubiam 
potius suspectamque reddi existimo/' He 



GRAY S LETTERS. 2To 

then proceeds to consider miracles in gene- 
ral, and afterwards those of the Pagans, com- 
pared with those of Christ. I only tell you 
the plan, for I have not read it out (thongh 
it is short); but you will not doubt to what 
conclusion it tends There is another U ing, 
I know not what, 1 am to see. As to liie 
treatise on prayer; they say it is burnt in- 
deed. Adieu! 



LXXXII. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Your pen was too rapid to mind the common 
form of a direction, and so, by omitting the 
words near Windsor, your letter has been 
diverting itself at another Stoke near Ayles- 
bury, and came not to my hands till to-day. 
The true original chairs were all sold, when 
the Huntingdans broke; there are nothing 
now but Halsey-chairs, not adapted to the 
scpnreness of a Gothic dowager's rump. 
And by the way, I do not see how the unea- 
siness and uncomfortableness of a corona- 
tion chair can be any objection with you: 
every chair that is easy is modern, and un- 
known to our ancestors. As I remember. 



224 gray's letters. 

there were certain low chairs, that look- 
ed like ebony, at Esher, and were old and 
pretty. Why should not Mr. Bentley im- 
prove upon them? I do not wonder at 
Dodsley. You have talked to him of six 
odts^ for so you are pleased to call every 
thing I write, though it be but a recei;>t to 
make apple-dnmplings. He has reason to 
gulp when he finds one of them onl}' a long 
story. I don't know but I may send him 
very soon (by your hands) an ode to his 
own tooth, a high Pindaric upon stilts, which 
one must be a better scholar than he is to 
understand a line of, and the very best scho- 
lars will understand but a little matter here 
and there. It wants but seventeen lines of 
having an end, I don't say of being finished. 
As it is so unfortunate to come too late for 
Mr. Bentley, it may appear in the fourth 
volume of the Miscellanies, provided you 
don't think it execrable, and suppress it. 
Pray, when the fine book is to be printed,* 
let me revise the press, for you know you 
can't; and there are a few trifles I could 
wish altered. 

I know not what you mean by hours of 
love and cherries, and pine-apples. I nei- 

* The edition of his odes piinted at Strawberry-Lill. B. 



gray's letters. 225 

ther see nor hear any thing here, and am of 
opinion that is the best nay. My compli- 
ments to Mr. Bentley,if he be with you. 

1 desire you would not show that epigram 
I re{)evUed to you,* as mine. 1 have heard 
of it twice already as coming tVom you. 



LXXXIII, 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

\ AM obliged to you for Mr. Dodsley's book,t 
and, having pretty well looked it over, will 
(as you desire) tell }'0u my opinion of it. 
He might, methinks, have spared the Graces 
in his frontispiece, if he chose to be eco- 
nomical, and dressed his authors in a little 
more decent raiment — not in vvhited-brown 
paper, and distorted characters, like an old 
ballad. I am ashamed to see myself; but 
the company keeps me in countenance: so to 
begin with Mr. Tickell. This is not only a 
state-poem (my ancient aversion) but a state- 
poem on the peace of Utrecht. If Mr. Pope 

*■ The editor much wishes he could repeat it to the public, but 
has not been abU to discover the epig;i'aiu alluded to. B. 
f His collectloa of poems. B. 
VOL. IV. 15 



226 - gray's letters. 

had wrote a panegyric on it, one could 
hardly have read him with patience: but 
this is only a poor short-winded imitator 
of Addison, who had himself not above 
three or four notes in poetry, sweet enough 
indeed, like those of a German flute, but 
such as soon tire and satiate the ear with 
their frequent return. Tickell has added 
to this a great poverty of sense, and a string 
of transitions that hardly become a school- 
boy. However, I forgive him for the sake 
of his ballad,* which I always thought 
the prettiest in the world. All there is of 
M. Green here has been printed before: 
there is a profusion of wit every where; 
reading would have formed bis judgment, 
and harmonized his verse, for even his wood- 
notes often break out into strains of real 
poetry and music. The School-mistress is 
excellent in its kind, and masterly; and (I 
am sorry to differ from you, but) London is 
to me one of those few imitations, that have 
all the ease and all the spirit of an original. 
The same man'sj verses at the opening of 
Garrick's theatre are far from bad. Mr. 



* Colin and Lucy ; beginning 

" Of Leinster fiaraed for maidens fair." 
1- Dr. Samuel Johnson. B. 



gray's letters. 227 

Dyer (here you will despise me highly) has 
more of poetry in his imagination, than al- 
most any of our number; but rough and in- 
judicious. I should range Mr. Bramston only 
a step or two above Dr. King, who is as 
low in my estimation as in yours. Dr. 
Evans is a furious madman; and Pre-exist- 
ence is nonsense in all her altitudes. Mr. 
Lyttelton is a gentle elegiac person: Mr. 
Nugent* sure did not write his own ode.j 
I like Mr. Whitehead's little poems, I mean 
the Ode on a Tent, the Verses to Gar- 
rick, and particularly those to Charles Town- 
shend, better than any thing I had seen before 
of him. I gladly pass over H. Brown, and 
the rest, to come at you. You know I was 
of the publishing side, and thought your 
reasons against it none; for though, as Mr. 
Chute said extremely well, the still small 
voice of poetry was not made to be heard 
in a crowd; yf>t satire will be heard, 
for all the audience are by nature her 
friends; especially when she appears in the 
spirit of Dryden, with his strength, and 
often with his versification; such as you have 
caught in those lines on the royal unction, 

* Afterwards earl Nugent. B. 

t That addressed to Mr. Pulteney. B. 



228' 

on the papal dominion, and convents of both 
sexes, on Henry VIII. and Charles II. for 
these are to me the shining parts of your 
epistle.* There are many lines I could 
wish corrected, and some blotted out, but 
beauties enough to atone for a thousand 
worse faults than these. The opinion of 
such as can at all judge, who saw it before 
in Dr. Middleton's hands, concurs nearly 
with mine. As to what any one says, since 
it came out; our people (you must know) 
are slow of judgment: they wait till some 
bold body saves them the trouble, and then 
follow his opinion; or stay till they hear 
what is said in town, that is, at some 
bishop's table, or some coffee-house about 
the Temple. When they are determined, 
I will tell you faithfully their verdict. As 
for the Beauties,! I am their most humble 
servant. What shall I say to Mr. Lowth, 
Mr. Ridley, Mr. RoUe, the reverend Mr. 
Brown, Seward, &;c.? If I say, Messieurs! 
tiiis is not the thing; write prose, write 
sermons, write nothing at all; they will dis- 
dain me, and my advice. What then would 

• Epistle from Florence to Thomas Asheton, tutor to the earl 
of Plymoutk. B. 
t The epistle to Mr. Eccardt the Painter. B. 



gkay's letters. 229 

the sickly peer* have done, that spends 
so much time in admiring every thing 
that has four legs, and fretting at his own 
misforturie in having but two; and cursing his 
own politic head and feeble constitution,, that 
won't let him be such a beast as he would 
wish? Mr. S. Jcnyns now and then cao 
write a good line or two — such as these — 

Snatch us from all our little soiTow s here, 

Calm everj' grief, and dry each childish tcai", &c. 

I like Mr. Ashton Hervey's fable; aiid an 
ode (the last of all) by Mr. Mason, a new 
acquaintance of mine, whose Musasus too 
seems to carry with it the promise at least 
«f something good to come, I was glad to 
see you distinguished who poor West was, 
before his charming ode,t and called it any 
thing rather than a Pindaiic. The town is 
an owl, if it don't like lady Mary. I and 1 am 
surprised at it: we here are owls enough to 
think her eclogues very bad; but that 1 did 
not wonder at. Our present taste is sir T, 
Fitz-Osborne's Letters. 1 send you a bit of 

* Lord Hervey. B. 

+ Monody on the death cf queen Caroline, B. 

t Lady M»i7 W. Moutajue's Potras. JB. 



230 gray's letters. 

a thing for two reasons: first, because it is of 
one of your favourites, Mr. M. Green; and 
next, because I would do justice. The 
thought on which my second ode* turns is 
manifestly ^tole from hence: not that I knew 
it at the time, but, having seen this many 
years before, to be sure it imprinted itself 
on my memory, and, forgetting the author, 
I took it for my own. The subject was the 

(Queen's Hermitage. 

***** 

Though yet no palace grace the shore 
To lodge the pair yout should adore ; 
Nor abbeys great in ruins rise, 
Royal equivalents for vice : 
Behold a grot in Delphic grove 
The Graces and the Muses love, 
A temple from vain-glory free ; 
Whose goddess is Philosophy ; 
Whose sides such licensed^ idols crown, 
As Superstition would pull down t 
The only pilgrimage I know, 
That men of sense would choose to go. 
Which sweet aliode, htr wisest choice, 
Urania cheers with heavenly voice : 
While all the Virtues gathir round 
To see her consecrate the ground. 

If thou, the god with winged feet. 
In coujicll talk of thii retieat ; 

* The Ode to Spring. B. 
t Speaking to the Thntr^s, 
t The four beast^. 



uray's letters. ^31 

And jealous gods resentment show 
At altars raised lo men below : 
Tell those proud lords of heaven, 'tis fit 
Their house our heroes should admit. 
While each exisis (as poets sing) 
A lazy, lewd, inunortal thing ; 
They must, or grow in disrepute. 
With earth's first commoners recruit. 

Needless it is in terms unskill'd 
To praise whatever Boyle shall build. 
Keedless it is the busts to name 
Of men, monopolists of fame- 
Four chiefs adorn the moiest stone, 
For virtue, as for learning, known. 
The thinking seulptui-e helps to raise 
Deep thoughts, the genii of the place : 
To the mind's ear, and inward sight, 
Their silence speaks, and shade gives light ; 
While insects from the threshold preach, 
And minds disposed to musing teach ; 
Proud of sirong limbs and painted hues, 
They peiish by the slightest bruise, 
Or maladies begun within 
Destroy more slow life's frail machine : 
From maggot-youth through change of state 
They feel like us the turns of fate ; 
Some bom to creep have liveil to fly, 
And changed earth's cells for dwellings high ; 
And some, that did their six wings keep, 
Before they died, been forced to ci-eep. 
They politics, like ours, profess : 
The greater prey upon the less. 
Some strain on foot huge loads to bring, 
Some toil incessant on the wing : 
Xor from their ^gorous schemes desist 
Till death ; andMhen are never miss'd. 



»nd|die 



232 gray's letters. 

Some frolick, marry, toil, increase, 
Are sick and well, have war, and peace. 
And, broke with ag« in half a day. 
Yield to successors, and away. 

* * # # * 



LXXXIV. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Dec. 19, 1752. 

Have: you read madame de Maintenon's let- 
ters? They are undoubtedly genuine ;^ they 
begin very early in her lite, before she mar- 
ried Scarron, and continue after the king's 
death to within a little while of her own: 
ihey bear all the marks of a noble spirit (in 
lier adversity particularly) of virtue and un- 
affected devotion; insomuch, that I am almost 
persuaded she was actually married to Louis 
XIV. and never his mistress: and this not 
out of any policy or ambition, but conscience: 
for she was what we should call a bigot, yet 
with great good sense. In short, she was 
loo good for a court. Misfortunes in the be- 
ginning of her life hud formed her mind 
(naturally lively art*] impatient) to reflection 
and a habit of piety. She was always mise- 

■1' 



qray's letters. 233 

rable while she had the care of madame de 
Montespnn's children; timid and very cau- 
tious of making use of that unlimited power 
she rose to afterwards, for fear oftrespassing 
on the king's friendship for her; and after hig 
death not at all afraid of meeting her own. 

I do not know what to say to you with re- 
gard to Racine; it sounds to me as if -any 
l3ody should fall upon Shakspeare, who in- 
deed lies intinitely more open to criticism of 
all kinds; but I should not care to be the 
person that undertook it. If you do not 
like Athaliah or Britannicus, there is no 
more to be said. I have done. 

Bishop Hall's satires, called Virgidemia?, 
are lately re-published. They are full of 
spirit and poetry; as much of the first as Dr. 
Donne, and far more of the latter: they were 
written at the university when he was about 
twenty-three years old, and in queen Eliza- 
beth's time. 

You do not say whether you have read 
the Crito.* I only recommend the dramatic 
part of the Phasdo to you, not the argumen- 
tative. The subject of the Erastae is good: 
it treats of that peculiar character and turn 
of mind which belongs to a true philosopher^ 

♦ Of Plato. 



234 gray's letters. 

but it is shorter than one would wish. The 
Eathyphro I would not read at all. 



LXXXV. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Stoke, Jan. 175*. 

I AM at present at Stoke, to which place I 
came at half an hour's warning upon the news 
I received of my mother's illness, and did 
not expect to hav'e found her alive; but when 
1 arrived she was much better, and continues 
so. I shall therefore be very glad to make 
you a visit at Strawberry -Hill, whenever 
you give me notice of a convenient time. I 
am surprised at the print,* which far sur- 

* A proof print of the Cul de Larnpe, vhich Mr. Ecr.tley de- 
signwf for the elegy in a country cliurcL-} ai-d. and which represtrils 
a village funeral : tin? occasioned tlie j)leasant mistake of his two 
aunts The remainder of the letter relates entirely to the project- 
ed publication of Mi. Bentky's designs, which were piinted after 
by Dodsley tlie same year. 'I'he latter part of it, where he so 
vehemently declaims against having his head prefixed to ihat work, 
■will appeal' highly (.•'laractf-ristical to those readers, who were iki- 
sonally acquainted with Mr Gisy. The print, which was taken 
fixHT! an original picture, painted by Eccardt, in Mr. Walpole's 
possession, was actually more than half engi-aved; but afterwards 
oa this account supjiressed. 



gray's letters. 235 

passes my idea of London graving. The 
drawing itself was so finished, that I suppose 
it did not require all the art 1 had imagined 
to copy it tolerably. My aunts seeing me 
open your letter, took it to be a burying- 
ticket, and asked whether any body had left 
me a ring; and so they still conceive it to be^ 
even with all their spectacles on. Heaven 
forbid they should suspect it to belong to 
any verses of mine, they would burn me for 
a poet. On my own part, I am satisfied, if 
this design of yours succeed so well as you 
intend it; and yet I know it will be accom- 
panied with something not at all agreeable to 
me. — While I write this, I receive your 
second letter. — Sure, you are not out of your 
wits ! This I know, if you suffer my head to 
be printed, you will infallibl\ put me out of 
mine. I conjure you immediately to put a 
stop to any such design. Who is at the ex- 
pense of engraving it, I know not; but if it 
be Dodslev, I will make up the loss to him. 
The thing as it was, I know, will malie me 
iidiculous enough; but to appear in proper 
jyer'jon, at the head of my works, consisting 
of half a dozen ballads in thirty pages, would 
be worse than the pillory. I do assure you, 
if I had received such a book, with such a 
frontispiece, without any warning, I believe 



236 gray's letters. 

it would have given me a palsy: therefore I 
rejoice to have received this notice, and shall 
not be easy till you tell me all thoughts of it 
are laid aside. I am extremely in earnest, 
and cannot bear even the idea. 

I had written to Dodsley if I had not re- 
ceived yours, to tell him how little 1 liked 
the title which he meant to pretix; but your 
letter has put all that out of my head. If 
you think it necessary to print these expla- 
nations* for the use of people that have no 
eyes, I should be glad they were a little 
altered. I am, to my shame, in your dfbt 
for a long letter; but I cannot think of any 
thing else till you have set me at ease on this 
matter. 

LXXXVI. 

TO MR. MASON. t 

Durham, Dee. 26, 1753. 

A LITTLE while before I received your me- 

* See the ah<,ve-mentioncd designs, where the explanations here 
alluded to are inserted. 

t It was not till about the year 1747 that I had the happiness of 
being introduced to the acquaintance of Mr. Graj'. Some very ju- 
venile imitations of Milton's juvenile poems, wliich I liad written 
a year or two before, and of which the monody on Mv. Pope's 
death was the principal, he then, at the request of OKe of my 
fri'wids, was so obliging as t» revise. 



gray's letters. 237 

Irincholy letter, I had been informed by Mr. 
Charles Avison of one of the sad events you 
mention.* I know what it is to lose persons 
that one's eyes and heart have long been 
used to; and I never desire to part with the 
remembrance of that loss, nor would wish 
you should. — it is something that you had a 
little time to acquaint yourself with the idea 
beforehand; and that your fither suffered 
but little pain, the only thing that makes 
death terrible. After 1 have said this, I 
cannot help expressing my surprise at the 
disposition he has made of his affairs. I 
must (if you will suffer me to say so) call it 
great weakness; and yet perhaps your afflic- 
tion for him is heightened by that very 
weakness; for I know it is possible to feel 
an additional sorrow for the faults of those 
we have loved, even where that fault has 
been greatl)' injurious to ourselves. Let me 
desire you not to expose yourself to any 
further danger in the midst of that scene of 
sickness and death; but withdraw as soon as 
possible to some place at a little distance in 
the country; for I do not, in the least, like 
the situation you are in. I do not attempt 

* Tbo death of iny father, and of Dr. Marraaduke Pricket, a 
yoiing physician of my own age, with whom I was brought up 
tro II infancy, vrlio died of the raine infectious fever. 



€38 gray's letters. 

to console you on the situation your fortune 
is left in; if it were far worse, the good 
opinion I have of you, tells me, you will 
never the sooner do any thing mean or 
unworthy of yourself; and consequently I 
cannot pity you on this account: but I sin- 
cerely do on the new loss you have had of a 
good and friendly man, whose memory 1 ho- 
nour. I have seen the scene you describe, 
and know how dreadful it is: 1 know too I 
am the better for it. We are all idle and 
thoughtless things, and have no sense, no use 
in the world any longer than that sad im- 
pression lasts; the deeper it is engraved the 
better. 



NDEX. 



.Vo. Tagc 

I. From Mr. West —Complains of his friend's si- 
lence .-.--.-.5 
II. To Mr. West .-Answer to the formev.-A trans- 
lation of some lines from Statins - - 7 

III. From Mr. West. — Approbation of the version. 

— Ridicule on the Cambridge Collection of 
\>rses on the Marriap^^ of the Prince of Wales 9 

IV. To Mr. W. St.— On the little encouragement 

which he finds given to classical learning at 
Cambridge — His aversion to metaphysical 
and mathematical studies - - - II 

V. From Mr West.— Answer to the former, advi- 
ses his correspondent not to give up poetiy 
when he applies himself to the law - - 14 
VI. To Mr Walpole.— Excuse for not writing to 

him, &c. - - - - - 16 

VII. From Mr- West. — A poetical epistle addressetl 
to his Cambridge friend, laken in part from 
Tibullu"!, and a prose letter of Mr. Pope - 18 
VIII. To Mr. West.— Thanks him for Lis poetical 
epistle. — Complains of low spirits. — Lady 
Walpole's death, and his concern for Mr H 
Walpole - - - - - 22 

IX. To Mr. Walpole-How he spends his own time 
in the countrj' — Meets with Mr. Southern, 
the dramatic poet - - - - 24 

X. To Mr, Waljiole.— Supposed manner in which 

Mr. Walpole spends his time in the country 26 
XI. From Mr. West.— Sends him a translation into 

Latin of a Greek epigram - - - 28 

XII. To Mr. Wert.— A Latin epistle in answer to 

the foregoing - - - - - 30 

XIIL From Mr. West —On leaving the University, 

and removing to the Temple - - 3 2 

XIV. To Mr West.— A Sippbic Ode, occasioned by 
the pi-eeeding letter, with a Latin postscript, 
concluding with an Alcaic fragment - 33 



;40 



Ix\DEX. 



- 36 



- 37 



XIX. 



XX. 



XXIX. 



39 



40 



- 46 



- 51 



No. Page 

XV. From Mr. West.— Thanks for liis Ode, &cc.-His 
idea of Sir Roliert Walpole 
XVI. To Mr. Wal[)ole— Coigratulatts him on his 
new place — Whimsical descripticfn of the 
quadiaL.gle of Peter-House 
XVII. To Mr. West —On his own leaving the Univer- 
sity ...... 

XVai From Mr Wes*. —Sends him a Latin El eg^' in 
answer to Mr. G ay's Sapphic Ode - 
To liis Mother.— His voyage from Dover.— De- 
scription of Calais. — .\blxrville.— Amiens — 
Face of the country, and di-ess of the people 42 
To Mr. West — Mtmuments of the kir.gs of 
Fiarce at St. Denis, &c,— French ojjera and 
music, &c —Actors. &c. 
XXI. To Mr West — Pulace of Versailles.— Its gar- 
dens and waier-works,- Installation of the 
Kniglits du S. Espnl 
XXII. To his Mother —Rheinis.— Its Cathedral.— Dis- 
position and amusements of its inliabitants 
XXIII. To his Father.— Face of the country between 
Rheims and D.jor. -Description of the latter. 
— Monastery of the Carthusians and CisteJ* 
ciaus - - - - . 

XXIV.' To y-Y. West,— Lyons. — Beauty of its environs. 
— Ron an antiquities - - - - 

XXV. From Mr. West.— His wishes to accompany 

his friend.— His retiretl life in Loiidoi..— Ad- 

dix'ss to his Lyre, in Lai in Sapphics, on the 

pi-ospect of Mr- Gray's return 

XXVI. To his Mother.— I. yovs — E.xcursion to the 

Grande Chartreuse Solemn arid njmantic 

approach to it — His ritejiticn there and com- 
mendation of the moni.sler\ 
XXVII. To his Father.- G.-neva —Advantage of a free 
government exhibited in the verj look of the 
people. — Beauty ef the lake, and plenty of 
its fish - . - . . 

XXVIII. To his Motlier .—Journey over the Alps to Turin. 
—Singular accident in passing thtm — Me- 
tliod of travelling over Mount Cenis 
To Mr- West —Turin. — Its Carnival,— Moiie of 
the views and sceniry «»n thi road to the 
Grande Ch-ntieuse — Wild and savage pios- 
ptcts amongst the Alps agreeable to Livy's de- 
scription - - - 



55 



•59 



61 



- 64 



66 



69 



72 



- 76 



INDEX. 



241 



No. 
XXX. 



Page 



To Mr. West.— Genoa.— Music— The Doge.— 
Churches and the Palazzo Doiia - - 80 

XXXI. To his Mother.- Paintings at Modena.— Bolog- 
na — Beauty and richness of Lonibardy - 83 
XXXII. To his Mother —The Apennines. — Florence 

and its galleiy - - - - 86 

XXXIII. To Mr West. — Journey from Genoa to Flo- 
rence.— Elegiac verses occasioned by the sight 
of the plains whei-e the battle of Trebia was 
fought - - - - - 90 

XXXrV. From Mr. West.— Latin Elegy, expressing his 

wishes to see Italy and Greece - - 91 

XXXV. To his Mother.— Death of the pope.— Intended 
departure for Rome. — First and pleasing 
appearanceof an Italian spring - - 92 

XXXVI. To his Mother.— Cathedral of Sienn«.— yiterbo. 
—Distant sight of Rome.— The Tiber.— En- 
trance into the city. — St Peter's — Introduc- 
tion of the Cardinal d'Auvergne into the 
conclave - - - - - 94 

XXXVII. To his Mother.— Illumination of St. Peter's on 

Good Friday, &c - - - - 99 

XXXVIII. To Mr. West.— Comic account of the palace of 
the duke of Modena at Tivoli. — The Anio.— 
Its cascade —Situation of the town.— Villas of 
Horace and Mascenas, and other remains of 

antiquity. — Modem aqueducts. A grand 

Roman ball - - - - - 101 

To Mr West.— An Alcaic ode.— Ludicrous al- 
lusion to ancient customs.— Albano and its 
lake.— Castel Gondolfo —Prospect from the 
palace; an obstrvation of Mr. Walpole's on 
the vifws in that part of Italy. — Latin in- 
scriptions, ancient and modem - - io§ 
To his Mother— Road to Naples.— Beautiful 
situation of that city.— Its bj<y.— Of Baia;, 
and several other antiquities. — Some ac- 
count of the first discovery of an ancient 
town, not known to be Herculaneum - 112 
XLI. To his Father.— Departure ft-om Rome and 
return to Florence. — No likelihood of the 
conclave's rising. — Some of the cardinals 
dead.— Description of the Pretender, his sons, 
and court.— Procession at Naples —Sight of 
the king and queen —Mildness of the air at 
Florence - - - - - lis 
XLII. From Mr. West —On his quitting the Temple, 

and reason for it - - - - 119 

XLIII. To Mr. West.— Answer to the foregoing letter. 



XXXIX. 



XL. 



VOL. 



16 



142 



INDEX. 



—Some account of Naples and its environs, 
and of Mr. Walpole's and his return to Flo- 
rence ------ 121 

XLIV. To his Mother.— Excursion to Bologna.— Elec- 
tion of a po|)e ; description of his person, 
with an odd speech which he made to the 
cai^inals in the conclave . - - 127 

XLV. To Mr. West.— Description in Latin hexame- 
ters of the sudden rising of Monte Nuovo 
near Puzzoli, and of the destrution which at- 
tended it - - - - - 130 

XLVI. To his Father. — Uncertainty of the route he 
shall take iu his return to England.— Magni- 
ficence of the Italians in their reception of 
strangers, and parsimony when alone.— The 
great applause which the new pope meets 
with. — One of his bon mots - - 135 

XLVII. To his Father.— Total want of amusement at 
Florence, occasioned by the laie emperor's fu- 
neral i>ot being public. — A procession to avert 
the ill effects of a late inundation— Intention 
of going to Venice.- An invasion from the Nea- 
politans appi-ehended. The inhabitants of 

Tuscany dissatisfied with the government 137 

XLVIII. To Mr. Wt-st.— The time of his departure 
from Florence determined. — Alteration in his 
temper and spirits.— Difference between an 
Italian fair and an English one.— A farewell 
to Florence and its prospects in Latin hexame- 
ters—Imitation, in the same language, of an 
Italian sonnet - - - _ 140 

XLIX. From Mr. West. — His spirits not as yet im- 
proved by country air.— Has begim to read 
Tacitus, but not to relish him - -144 

L. To Mr. West —Earnest hopes for his friend's 
better health, as the warm weather comes on. 
—Defence of Tacitus and his character.— Of 
the new Dunciad. — Sends him a speech from 
the first scene of his Agrippina - 145 

LI. From Mr. West.— Criticisms on his friend's tra- 
gic style.— Latin hexameters on his own cough 148 
LII. To Mr. West: — Thanks for his verses. — On 
Joseph Andrews.— Defence of old words in 
tragedy - - - - - 150 

LIII. From M^^ West.— Answer to the former, on 

the subject of antiquated expressions - 155 

LIV To Mr. West.— Has laid aside his ti-agedy.— 

Difficulty of translating Tacitus - - 158 

LV, From Mr. West.— With an English ode ou the 

approach of May - - - - iflO 



INDEX. 



243 



JVo. Page 

LVI. To Mr. West— Criticises his ode.— Of his owli 

classical studies - - - - 162 

LVII- From Mr. West.— Answer to the foregoing - 164 
LVIII. To Mr West. — Of his own peculiar species of 
melancholy. — Inscription for a wood in 
Greek hexametei's.-Arguinent and exordium 
of a Latin heroic epistle from Sophonisba to 
Massinissa ----- 155 
LIX. To Dr. Wharton, on taking his degree of Ba- 
chelor of Civil Law - . - 159 
LX. To Dr. Wharton. — Ridicule on university 
laziness. — Of Dr. Akenside's Poem on the 
pleasures of Imagination - - 171 
LXI, To Mr. Walpole.— Ludicrous description of 
the Scottish army s approach to the capital. 
—Animadversions on Pope - - 174 
LXII. To Dr. Wharton.— His amusements in to^vn.— 

Reflections on riches.— Character of Aristotle 176 
LXIII. To Mr. Walpole.— Observations on his tragedy 
of Agrippiiia.— Admirable picture of true 
philosophy ... 
LXrV. To Mr. Walpole.— Ridicule on Gibber's Ob- 
servations on Cicero. — On the modern 
Platonic dialogue. — Account of his own 
and Mr. West's poetical compositions 
LXV. To Mr. Walpole — Criticisms ou Mr. Speuce's 

Polymetis - . - 

LXVL To Ml'. Walpole.— Ludicrous compliment of 
condolence on the death of his favourite 
cat, enclosing an ode on that subject 
LXVII. To Dr. Wharton.— Loss by fire of a house m 
Comhill.— On Diodorus Siculus. — M Gres- 
set s Poems.-Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 
—Ode to a Water Nymph, with a character 
of its author 
LXVIII. To Dr. Wharton.— More on M. Gresset.— Ac- 
count of his own projected poem on the al- 
liance between governnient and education 195 
LXIX. To Dr Whaiton. — Character of M. de Mon- 
tesquieu's L'Esprit des Loix . , jjy 
LXX. To Dr. Wharton .-Account of books continued. 
— Crebillon's Catalina.-Birch's State Papers. 
—Of his own studies, and a table of Gi-eek 
chronolog)-, which he was then forming . jgg 
LXXI. To Dr. Wharton.— Ludicrous account of the 
Duke of Newcastle's installation at Cam- 
bridge—On the ode then performed, and 
more concerning the auUiw w it - -201 



- 180 



- 183 



- 187 



191 



- 192 



244 



INDEX. 



No. Page 

LXXII. To his Mother.— Consolatory on the death of 

her sister - - - - - 05 

LXXIII. To Mt. Walpole.— Encloses his Elegy in a 

Country Church-yard ... 205 

LXXIV. To Dr Wharton.— Wishes te be able to pay 
him a visit at Durham.— On Dr. Middleton's 
death.— Some account of the first volumes of 
Burfbn's Histoire Naturelle - - - 286 

LXXV. ToDr Wharton.-On theill reception which his 
Long Story met with in town when handed 
about in manuscript, and how much his Elegy 
in a Country Church-yard was applauded 209 
LXXVI. To Mr. Walpole,— Desires him to give his Ele- 
gy to Mr. Dodsley to be printed immediately, 
in order to prevent its publication in a ma- 
gazine ----- 210 
I.XXVIL To Mr. Walpole ^A letter of thanks for Mr. 

Walpole's care of liis literary productions - 212 
LXXVIII. To Mr. Walpole.— Desires his opinion of the 
Elfrida of Mr Mason.— Proposes some alte- 
rations in his Elegy - - - - 214 

LXXIX. To Mr. Walpole,— Remarks on the Elegy of 
Mr Lyttelton, and likewise on some of his 
own productions - - - . 216 

LXXX. To Mr. Walpole — Humorous inquiry into the 
state of .r. Walpole's forthcoming publica- 
tions, &c. ----- 218 
LXXXI. To Mr. Walpole —With his Hymn to Adver- 
sity.— Remarks on Dr. C. Middleton's Essay 
on Miracles ----- 220 
LXXXII. To Mr. Walpole.— With a promise of shortly 

sending his Pindaric Ode - - - 24'3 

LXXXIII. To Mr Walpole.— Remarks on Dodsley's Col- 
lectioii of Poems, and on several literary 
characters of the time, together with an ex- 
tract from a poem - - - - 225 
LXXXIV. To Dr. Wharton.— Of Madame Maintenon's 
character and letters.— His high opinion of 
M. Racine.— Of bishop Hall's Satires, and of 
a few of Plato's Dialogues - - - 232 
LXXXV. To Mr. Walpole.— Concerning the intention of 
publishing Mr. Bentley's designs for his po- 
ems.— Refuses to have his own portrait pre- 
fixed to that work - . - - 234 
LXXXVIi ToMr. Mason.— On the death of his father -236 



EKD OF vol. I. 



THE 

LETTERS 

OF 

CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRAi«GED 

S FROM THE 

WALPOLE AND MASON COLLECTIONS. 



VOL. II. 



TWDCCCXX. 



LETTERS 



THOMAS GRAY. 



LXXXVII. 



TO DR. WHARTON. 



Stoke, Sept. 18, 1754. 

I AM glad you enter into the spirit of StraW- 
berry-Castle; it has a purity and propriety 
of Gothicism in it (with very few excep- 
tion-) that I have not seen elsewhere. My 
lord Radnor's vagiaries I see did not keep 
you from doing justice to his situation, which 
far surpasses every thino; near it; and 1 do 
pot know a more laughing scene than that 
about Twickenham and Richmond. Dr. 
Akenside, I perceive, is no conjurer in 
architecture, especially when he talks of 
the ruins of Persepolis, which are no more 



4 GRAY S LETTERS. 

Gothic than they are Chinese. The Egyp- 
tian style (see Dr. Pococke, not his dis- 
courses, but his prints) was apparently the 
mother of the Greek; and there is such a 
siraihtude between the Egyptian and those 
Persian ruins, as gave Diodorus room to 
affirm, that the old buildings of Persia were 
certainly performed by Egyptian artists. 
As to the other part of your friend's opinion, 
that the Gothic manner is the Saracen or 
Moorish, hd has a great authority to sup- 
port him, that of sir Christopher Wren; and 
yet I cannot help thinking it undoubtedly 
wrong. The palaces in Spain I never saw 
but in description, which gives us little or 
no idea of things; but the doge's palace at 
Venice I have seen, Vvhich is in the Ara- 
besque manner: and the houses of Barbary 
3^ou may see in Dr. Shaw's book, not to 
mention abundance of other eastern build- 
ings in Turkey, Persia, &c. that we have 
views of; and they seem plainly to be cor- 
ruptions of the Greek architecture, broke 
into little parts indeed, and covered with lit- 
tle ornaments, but in a taste very distin- 
guishable from that which we call Gothic. 
There is one thing that runs throi;gh the 
Moorish buildings, that an imitator would 
certainly have been first struck with, and 



GRAY 3 LETTERS. 5 

would Imve tried to copy; and that is the 
cupolas which cover every thing, baths, 
apartments, and even kitchens; yet who 
ever saw a Gothic cupohi? It is a thing 
plaini}' of Greek original. I do not see 
any thing but the slender spires that serve 
for steeples, which may perhaps be borrow- 
ed from the Saracen minarets on their 
mosques. 

I take it ill you should say any thing 
against the Mole, it is a reiiectit)n I see cast 
at the Thames. Do you think that rivers, 
which have lived in London and its neigh- 
bourhood all their days, will run roaring and 
tumbhng about like your tramontane tor- 
rents in the north? No, they only glide and 
whisper. 



LXXXVIII. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Cambridge, March 9, 1755. 

I DO not pretend to humble any one's pride; 
I love my own too well to attempt it. As 
to mortifying their vanity, it is too easy and 
too mean a task for me to delight in, You 
are very good in showing so much sensibi- 



6 gray's letters. 

Irty on my account; but be assured my taste 
for praise is not like that of children for 
fruit; if there were nothing but medlars and 
blackberries in the world, I could be very 
well content to go without any at all. I 
dare say that xMasnn, though some years 
younger than I, was as little elevated with 
the approbation of lord * * and lord * *, as 
I am mortitied by their silence. 

With regard to publishing, 1 am not so 
much against the thing itself, as of publish- 
ing this ode alone.* I have two or three 
ideas more in my head; what is to come of 
them? Mu?t they too come out in the shape 
of little sixpenny flams, dropping one after 
another till Mr. Dodslev thinks fit to collect 
them with Mr. This's Song, and Mr. 'I'oth- 
er's epigram into a pretty volume? I am 
sure Mason must be sensible of this, and 
therefore cannot mean what be says; neither 
am I quite of your opinion with regard to 
strophe and antistrophe;! setting aside the 

* His Ode on the Progress of Poftry. 

+ He often mad- the same remark to me in conversation, which 
leA vne to form the last ode of Caiactucus in short r si3 ;zu>: hut 
we must not imagine that he thought tiie regular Pi rii;/ic ■• i-tiiod 
without its use; though as be iiistly says, when tbrnttir, long 
stanzas, it d(<-s ..ot fully succeed in uoj^it of effect on the eav : for 
J here was nothings which he more disliked than that chain of irre- 



oray's letters. 7 

difficnlty of execution, niethiriks it has little 
or no etfect on the ear, which scarce per- 
ceives the regular return of metres at so 
great a distance from one another: to make 
it succeed, I am persuaded the stanzas njust 
not consist of above nine lines earii at the 
most. — Pindar has several such odes. 



LXXXIX. 



TO MR. STONHEW^ER.'^ 

August 21, 1755. 

I THANK you for your intellic^enoe .«I>uut 
Herculaneum, which was the hist neus I 
received of it. I have smce turned over 

gular stauaas which Cowley introduced, and falstly calk-d Pin- 
dainc ; and which, from the extreme facility of execiitici;, pro- 
duced a number of iniserabL' imitaiors Had the ivgulai return of 
strope,antistrophe and epode no other merit thar that oi extreme 
difficulty, it o igMt on this very account, to be valued ; kcause we 
well tinow thiit "' easy writing is i.o easy reading.'' It is also to 
be remarked, that Mr Congreve, who (though witJiout any luical 
powers) iirst introduced the regular Pindaric form into th. E-.igiish 

lajig'iagc, made use of the short stanzas which Mr Gray here 

recommends See his ode to the queen. 

* Aftti-warfs aud tor of excise. His friendship with ]Nfr. Gray 
wmunenced at college, and continued till the death of the latter. 



8 GRAY S LETTERS, 

monsignor Baiardi's book,* where I have 
learned how many grains of modern wheat 
the Roman congius. in the capitol, holds, 
and how many thousandth parts of an inch 
the Greek foot consisted of more. (or less, 
for I forgot which) than our own. He 
proves also by many affecting examples, that 
an antiquary may be mistaken: that, for any 
thing any body knows, this place under 
ground might be some other place, and not 
Hefcuhiaeum; but nevertheless, that he can 
show for certain, that it was this place and 
no other place; that it is hard to say which 
of the several Hercules's was the founder; 
therefore (in the third volume) he promises 
to give us thp memoirs of them all; and after 
that, if we do not know what to think of the 
matter, he will tell us. There is a great 
deal of wit too, and satire, and verses, in 
the book, which is intended chiefly for the 
information of the French king, who will be 
greatly edilied without doubt. 

* I believe the book here ridiculed was published by the 
authority of the king of Naples But afterwards, oh finding- 
how ill qualified the autlior was to execute the task, the business 
of describing the antiquities foimd at Heiculaneum was put into 
other lianas ; who have certainlj', as far as they have ^one, pev« 
formed it much better. 



GRAY S LETTERS. 9 

I am much obliged to you also for Vol- 
taire's performance; it is very unequal, as 
he is apt to be in all but his dramas, and 
looks like the work of a man that will admire 
his retreat and his Leman-Lake no longer 
than till he finds an opportunity to leave it:* 
however, though there be many parts which 
I do not like, yet it is in several places ex- 
cellent, and every where above mediocrity. 
As you have the politeness to pretend impa- 
tience, and desire I would communicate, and 
all that, I annex a piece of the prophecy;! 
which must be true at least, as it was wrote 
so many hundred years after the events. 



XC. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Pembroke-Hall, INIarch 25, 1756. 

Though I had no reasonable excuse for my- 
self before I received your last letter, yet 
<\nce that time 1 have had a pretty good one; 
having been taken up in quarrelling with 

* I do not recollect the title of this poem, but it was a small 
one which M. de Voltaire wrote when he first settled at Femey. 

t The second antistrophe and epode, with a few lines of the 
tl^inl strophe of his ode, entitled the Bard, were here inserted. 



10 gray's letters. 

Peter-house,* and in removing myself from 
thence to Pembroke. This may be looked 
upon as a sort of aira in a life so barren of 
events as mine; yet 1 shall treat it in Vol- 
taire's manner, and only tell you that 1 left 
my lodiiings because the rooms were noisy, 
and the people of the house uncivil. This 
is all I would choose to have said about it; 
but if you in private should be curious 
enough to enter into a particular detail of 
facts and minute circu^mstances, the bearer, 
who was witness to them, will probably 
satisfy you. All I shall say more is. that I 
am for the present extremely well lodged 
here, and as quiet as in the Grande Char- 
treuse; and that every body (even Dr Long 
himself) are as civil as they could be to 
Maryt of Valens in person. 

• The reason of Mr. Gray's changing his college which is here 
only glasiced at, was iis few words this : two or thne youiig men 
of fortire, v. ho li»M! r th( same staircast, had > or dm time 
intentionally disturlied him with the^r rots and earned tluir ill 
bf'havioKr so far as htqncDtly to awaken liirn at niidiight After 
having borne »vith thf:r nstilts longtr tba- rtiijiht ressonahlj have 
been ex|»fccted even front a ntan of less wamitb of temptr, Mr. 
Gra complained f^' thf jiovtr.ing c>art of the society; and not 
thinking that his remoustrance was sufficiently attei'xied to, quitted 
tht coll -ge. The slight manner in which he nientior>6 ihi.s altair, 
whw. writing to one of his most intimate friendsi certainly does 
honour to the placabilitj' of his disposit-on 

t Foundress of th« College. 



GRAY*S LETTERS. 11 

With rea:arH to any advice I can give you 
about your beins; physician to the hospital, 
I frankly own it ought to give way to a 
much better judge, especially so disinterest- 
ed a one as Dr. Heberden. I love refusals 
no more than you do. But as to your fears 
of ^^ifluvia, I maintain that one sick rich 
patient has more of pestilence and putrefac- 
tion about him than a whole ward of sick 
poor. 

The similitude between the Italian re- 
publics and those of ancient Greece has 
often struck me, as it does you. I do not 
wonder that Sully's Memoirs 'have hi-rhly 
entertained you; but cannot agree with you 
in tiiinking him or his master two of the best 
men in the world. The king was indeed 
one of the best-nntured men that ever lived; 
but it is owing only to chance that bis in- 
tended marriage with madame d'Estrees, or 
with the marquis de Vernenil, did not in- 
volve him and the kingdom in the most in- 
extricable confision; and his design upon 
the princess of Conde (in his old age) was 
worse still. As to the minister, liis base 
ay>plication to Concini, after the murder of 
Henry, has quite ruined him in mv esteem, 
and destroyed all the merit of that honest 
surly pride for which 1 honoured him be- 



i-i GRAY S LETTERS. 

fore; yet I own that, as kings and ministers 
go, they were both extraordinary men. 
Pray look at the end of Birch's state papers 
of sir J. Edmonds, for the character of the 
French court at that time; it is written by 
sir George Carew. 

You should have received Mason's pre- 
sent* last Saturday. I desire you to tell me 
your critical opinion of the new odes, and 
also whether you have found out two lines 
which he has inserted in his third to a 
friend, which are superlative.! We ao not 
expect the world, which is just going to be 
invaded, will bestow much attention on them; 
if you hear any thing, you will tell us. 

* The four odes which I had just published separately. 

■f I should leare the reader to guess (if he thought it worth Ins 
Trhile) what this couplet was, which is here comuiended so much 
beyond its merit, did not the ode conclude with a compliment to 
Mr Gray, in which part he might probably look for it, as those 
lines were written with the greater care. To secure, therefore, 
my friend from any imputation of vanity, whatever becomes ol 
myself, I shall here insert the passage. 

While through the west, where sinks the crimson day. 
Meek twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey. 



oray's letters. 13 

XCI. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

June^ 14, 1756* 

Though I allow abundance for your kind- 
aess and partiality to me, I am yet much 
pleased with the good opinion you seem to 
Lave of the Bard: I have not, however, 
done a word more than the little you have 
seen, having been in a very listless, unplea- 
sant, and inutile state of mind for this long 
time, for which I shall beg you to prescribe 
me somewhat strengthening and agglutinant, 
lest it turn to a conlirmed phthisis. 

I recommend two little French books to 
you, one called Memoirs de M. de la Porte; it 
has all the air of simplicity and truth, and 
contains some few very extraordinary facts 
relating to Anne of Austria and cardinal Ma- 
zarine. The other is in two small volumes, 
" Memoires de Madame Staal." The facts 
are no great matter, but the manner and 
vivacity make them interesting. She was 
a sort of confidante to the late duchess of 
Maine, and imprisoned a long time on her 
account during the regency. 



14 gray's letters. 

I ought before now to have thanked you 
for your kinil ofler, vviiich I nif an soon to 
accept, for a reason which to be sure can 
be none to you and Mrs. Wharton; and there- 
fore 1 think it my duty to give you notice of 
it. I have told you already of my mental 
ailments; and it is a very possible thing also 
that I may be bodily ill again in town, which 
I would not choose to be in a dirty incon\ e- 
nient lodging, where, perhaps, my nurse 
might stitie me with a pillow; and therefore 
it is no wonder if I prefer your house: 
but I tell you of this in time, that if either 
of you are frightened at the thoughts of a 
sick body, you may make a handsome ex- 
cuse, and save yourselves this trouble. You 
are not however to iu.agine that my illness 
is in esse; no, it is only m posse; otherwise 
I should be scrupulous of bringing it home 
to you. I think I shall be with you in about 
a fortnight. 



XCII. 

TO MR. MASON. 

Stoke, July 25, 1756. 

1 FEEL a contrition for my long silenc , and 
yet perhaps it is the last thing you trouble 



gray's letters. 15 

your head about. Nevertheless, I will be 
as sorry as if you took it ill. I am sorry too 
to see you so punctilious as to stand upon 
answers, and never to come near me till I 
have regularly left my name at your door, 
like a mercer's wife, that imitates peoj>le 
who go a visiting. I would forgive you this, 
if you could possibly suspect 1 were doing 
any thing that I liked better; for then your 
formality might look like being piqued at 
my negligence, which has somewhat in it 
like kindness: but you know 1 am at Stoke, 
hearing, seeing, doing absolutely nothing. 
Not such a nothing as you do at Tunbridge, 
chequered and diversified with a succession 
of fleeting colours; but heavy, lifeless, with- 
out form and void; sometimes almost as 
black as the moral of Voltaire's Lisbon,* 
which angers you so. I have had no more 
muscular inflations, and am only troubled 
with this depression of mind You would 
not expect therefore I should give you any 
account of my vcrve^ which is at best (you 
know) of so delicate a constitution, and has 
such weak nerves, as not to stir out of its 
chamber above three days in a year. But I 
shall inquire after yours, and why it is off 

* His poem " Bur la Destruction de Lisbon," published about 
that time. 



16 gray's letters. 

again ? It has certainly worse nerves than 
mine, if your reviewers have frighted it. 
Sure I (not to mention a score of your other 
critics) am something a better judge than all 
the man mid wives and Presbyterian parsons* 
that ever were born. Pray give me leave 
to ask yon, do you find yourself tickled with 
the commendations of such people ? (for you 
have your share of these too) I dare say not; 
your vanity has certainly a better taste. 
And can then the censure of such critics 
move you ? I own it is an impertinence in 
these gentry to talk of one at all either in 
good or in bad; but this we must all swal- 
low: I mean not only we that write, but all 
the rve\'i that ever did any thing to be talked 
of. 

While I am writing I receive yours, and 
rejoice to find that the genial influences of 
this fine season, which produce nothing in 
me, have hatched high and unimaginable fan- 
tasies in you.t I see, methinks, as l sit on 
Snowdon, some glimpse of Mona and her 
haunted shades, and hope we shall be very 
good neighbours. Any Druidical anecdotes 

* Tlie Reviewers, at tbe timp, were supposed to be of Uiese pro- 
fessions. 

1 1 had sent him my first idea of Caractacus, drawu out in a 
short argument. 



gray's letters. 17 

that I can meet with, I will be sure to send 
you wiien I return to Cambridge; but I can- 
not pretend "to be learned without books, or 
toktjow the Druids fi om modern bishops at 
this distance. I can only tell you not to go 
and take Mona for tiie Isle of Man: it is 
Anglesey, a tract of plain country, very fer- 
tile, but picturesque only from the view it 
has of Caernarvonshire, from which it is 
separated by the Menai, a narrow arm of ihe 
sea. Forgive me for supposing in you such 
a want of erudition. 

I congratulate you on our glorious suc- 
cesses in the Mediterranean. Shall we go 
in time, and hire a house together in Swit- 
zerland? It is a fine poetical country to look 
at, and nobody there will understand a word 
we say or write. 



XCIII. 

TO MR. MASON. 

Cambridge, May, 1757. 

You are so forgetful of me that I should not 
forgive it, but that I suppose Caractacus may 
be the better for it. Yet I hear nothing 
from him neither, in spite of his promises: 
roL. IV. 38 



18 gray's letters. 

there is no faith in man, no not in a Welsh- 
man; and yet Mr. Parry* has been here, 
and scratched out such ravishing bhnd har- 
mony, such tunes of a thousand years old, 
with names enough to choak you, as have 
bet all this learned body a dancing, and in- 
spired them with due reverence for my old 
Bard his countryman, when he shall appear. 
Mr. Parry, you must know, has put my ode 
in motion again, and has brought it at last to 
a conclusion. 'Tis to him, therefore, that 
you owe the treat which I send you en- 
closed ; namely, the breast and merry- 
thought, and rump too of the chicken which 
1 have been chewing so long, that I would 
give the world for neck-beef or cow-heel. 

You will observe, in the beginning of this 
thing, some alterations of a few words, partly 
for improvement, and partly to avoid repeti- 
tions of like words and rhymes; yet I have 
not got rid of them all; the six last lines of 
the fifth stanza are new ; tell me whether 
they will do. I am well aware of many 
weakly things towards the conclusion, but I 
hope the end itself will do; give me your 
full and true opinion, and that not upon de- 

* A capital performer on the Welsh harp, and who was cither 
bom blind, or bad been se froia his infeoej. 



gray's letters. 19 

liberation, but forthwith. Mr. Hurd himself 
aUows that Lyon port is not too bold for 
queen Elizabeth. 

I have got the old Scotch ballad on which 
Douj^las* was founded; it is divine, and as 
long as from hence to Aston. Have you 
never seen it? Aristotle's best rules are ob- 
served in it, in a manner that shows the 
author had never read Aristotle. It begins 
in the iifth act of the play: you may read it 
two thirds through without guessing what it 
is about; and yet, when you come to the end, 
it is impossible not to understand the whole 
story. I send you the two first stanzas. 
****** 

* He had a high opinion of this first drama of Mr, Home. In a 
letter to another friend, dated August lO, this year, he says, " I am 
greatly struck with the tragedy of Douglas, though it has infinite 
faults. The author seenis to me to have retrieved the true lan- 
guage of the stage, wliich had been lost for these hundred years ; 
and there is one scene (betvi^een Matilda and the old peasant) so 
masterly that it strikes me blind to all the defects in the world." 
The ballad, which he here applauds, is to bt; found in Dr. Percy's 
Reliques of Ancient Piietry, a work published after the date of tfik 
letter. 



20 



XCIV. 



TO MR. WALPOLE. 



Stoke, July 11, 175*c 

1 WILL not give you the trouble of sending 
your chaise for me. I intend to be with you 
on Wednesday in the evening. If the press 
stands still all this time for me, to be sure it 
is dead in child-bed. 

I do not love notes, though you see I had 
resolved to put two or three.* They are 
signs of weakness and obscurity. If a thing 
cannot be underst )od without them, it had 
better be not understood at all. If you will 
be vulgar, and pronounce li Limnun, instead 
of London,! I can't help it. Caradoc I 
have private reasons against; and besides 
it is in reality Cara Joe, and will not stand in 
the verse. 

I rejoice you can fill all your vuides : the 
Maintenon could not, and that was her great 
misfortune. Seriously though, 1 congratu- 
late you on your happiness, and seem to un- 
derstand it. The receipt is obvious : it is 

* To the Bai-d. B. 

t " Ye towers of Julia, London's lasting shame." B. v. 87. B» 



grab's letters. 21 

only, Have something to do; but how few 
can apply iti Adieu! 



xcv. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

I AM SO charmed with the two specimens of 
Erse poetry, that I cannot help giving you 
the trouble to inquire a little farther about 
them, and should wish to see a few lines of 
the original, that I may form some slight 
idea of the language, the measures, and the 
rhythm. 

Is there any thing known of the author or 
authors, and of what antiquity are they sup- 
posed to be ? 

Is there any more to be had of equal 
beauty, or at all approaching to ii ? 

I have often been told that tlie poem call- 
ed Hardicnute (which I always admired, and 
still admire) was the work of somebody that 
lived a few years ago.* This 1 do not at all 

• It has been supposed the work of a lady cf tlie came of Wavd- 
law, who died in Scotland not man> yi ars aat) but upon no better 
evitte^ce, that I could ever learn, than chat a copy of the poem 
with some erasures was found anjong h-r papers -after hev death. 
Jifo proof surely of its original coiuposition, as few but ptrsons ©f 



22 gray's letters. 

believe, thoiip;h it hns evidently been re- 
touched in places by some modern hand: 
but. however, I am authorized hy this re- 
port to ask, whether the two poems in ques- 
tion are certainly antique and p:enuine. I 
make this inquiry in quality of an antiquary, 
and am not otherwise concerned about it: 
for, if- I were sure that any one now living 
in Scotland had written them to divert him- 
self and laugh at the credulity of the world, 
I would undertake a journey into the High- 
lands only for the pleasure of seeing him. 



XCVI. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

1 HAVE been very ill this week with a great 
cold and a fever, and, though now in a way 
to be well, am like to be contined some 
days longer: whatever j^ou will send me that 
is new or old, and /o»r, will he received as 
a charity Rousseau's people do not inter- 
est me; there is but one character and one 
style in them all; I do not know their faces 

business, which women seldom are, take the precaution of dock- 
etting. or writing " Copy" upon every thing they may tran- 
scribe. B. 



gray's letters. 23 

asuntler. I have no esteem for their per- 
sons or contlnct, am not touched with tiieir 
passions; and as to their story, 1 do not be- 
lieve a word of it — not because it is impro- 
bable, but because it is absurd. If 1 had 
an_y little propensity, it was to Julie; but 
now she has gone and (so hand over bend) 
married that monsieur de Wolmar, 1 take 
her for a vrair Sui.sscssc, and do not d(;ubt 
but she had taken a cup too much, like her 
lover,* All this does not imply that I will 
not read it out, when you can spare the 
rest of it. 



XCVII. 

TO MR. nURD, 

Stoke, August 25, 1757. 

I DO not know why you should thank me 
for what you had a right and title to;t but 

• Were not the public already in possession of Mr. Gray's 
opinion of the Nouvelle Heloise, in his letters published by Mr. 
Mason— how would such a criticism, from such a critic, astonish 
all those more happily constituted readers, who, capable of 
appreciating varied excellence, have perhaps read with equa^ 
delight the exquisite odes of the one author, and the extraordinary 
and (with all its faults) inimitable romance of the other- B, 

t A present of his two Pindaric odes just then puhlishetl. 



24 gray's letters. 

attribute it to the excess of your politeness; 
and the more so, because almost no one else 
has made me the same compliment. As 
your acquaintance in the university (you 
say) do me the honour to admire^ it would 
be ungenerous in me not to give them notice, 
that they are doing a very unfashionable 
thing; for all people of condition are agreed 
not to admire, nor even to understand. One 
very great man, writing to an acquaintance 
of his and mine, says that he had read thf>m 
seven or eight times; ar^d that now, when he 
next sees him, he shall not have above 
thirty questions to ask. Another (a peer) 
believes that the last stanza of the second 
ode relates to kingCharles the first and Oliver 
Cromwell. Even my friends tell me they 
do not svcce(d^ and write me moving topics 
of consolation on that head. In short, I 
have heard of nobody but an actor and a 
doctor of divinity that profess their esteem 
for them.* Oh yes, a lady of quality (a 

* This was written August 25, 1757. An extract from a letter 
of Mr Gray to Dr. Whaiton, dated October 7, 1757, mentions 
•another admirer whom he knew how to value- " Dr. Warburton 
is come to town, and I am told likes them extremely ; he says the 
world never passed so j ust an opinion upon any thing as upon 
them : for that in other things they have affected to like or dislike : 
.vhf ro«s kcre they own they do not understand, which he looks upon 



gray's letters. 25 

friend of Mason's) who is a great reader. 
She kne«v there was a compliment to Dry- 
den, but never suspected there was any- 
thing said about Shakspeare or Milton, till it 
was explained to her; and wishes that there 
had been titles prefixed to tell what they 
were about. 

From this mention of Mason's tiame, you 
may think, perhaps, we are great corres- 
pondents. No such thing; I have not heard 
from him these two months. I will be sure 
to scold in my own name, as well as in yours. 
I rejoice to hear you are so ripe for the 
press, and so voluminous; not for my own 
sake only, whom you flatter with the hopes 
of seeing your labours both public and pri- 
vate, but for yours too; for to be employed 
is to be happy. This principle of mine (and 
J am convinced of its truth) has, as usual, no 
influence on my practice. I am alone, and 
ennuye to the last degree, yet do nothing. 
Indeed I have one excuse; my health (which 

t« be very true; but yet thinks they understand them as well as 
Milton or Shakspeare, whom they are obliged, by fashion, to 
admire. Mr. Garrick's complimentary verses to me you have seen 5 
I am told they were printed in the ChiX)niele of last Saturday. 
The Ciitical Review ii in raptures ; bxit mistakes the .(Eolian Lyre 
for the Harp of iEoIus, and on this pleasant etror founds both a 
compliment and a criticism. This is all I heard that signifies any 
thing." 



GRAY S LETTERS. 



yon have so kindly inquired after) is not ex- 
tro« rdinary, ever since I came hitheik' It is 
no great malady, but several little ones, that 
seem brewing no good to me. It will be a 
particular pleasure to me to hear whether 
content dwells in Leicestershire, and how 
she entertains herself there. Only do not 
be too happy, nor forget entirely the quiet 
ugliness of Cambridge. 



XCVIII. 

TO MR. MASON. 

Stoke, Sept. 28, 1757. 

I HAVE (as I desired Mr. Stonhewer to tell you) 
read over Caractacus twice, not with pleasure 
only, but with emotion. You may say what 
you will; but the contrivance, the manners, 
the interests, the passions, and the expression, 
go beyond the dramatic part* of your £Jfrida, 

* In the raanuseript now before him, Mr. Gray bad only the first 
«de, the others were not then written ; and although the dramatic 
part was brought to a conclusion, yet it was afterwards in many 
places altered. He was mistaken with regard to the opinion the 
world would have about it. That world, which usually kves to be 
led ;n such matters, rather than form an opinion to itself was 
taugh t a different sea^ment ; and one of its leaders went so far as 



gray's letters. 27 

many many leagues. I even say (though 
you will think me a bad judge of this) that 
the world will like it better. I am struck 
with the chorus who are not there merely 
to sing and dance, but bear throughout a 
principal pfirtin the action; and have (beside 
the costume, which is excellent) as much a 
character of their own, as any other person. 
I am charmed with their priestly pride and 
obstinacy, when, after all is lost, they re- 
solve to confront the Roman general, and spit 
in hi^i face. But now 1 am going to tell you 
what touches me most from the bej^inning. 
The tirst opening is greatly improved: the 
cuiiosity of Didius is now a very natural 
reason for dvvelling on each particular of the 
scene before him; nor is the description at 
all too long. I am gl^^d to find the two 
young men are Cartismandua's sons They 
interest me far more. I love people of ron- 
dition. They were men before that nobody 

to declare, that he nerer knew a second work fall so much below a 
first irora the same hand To oppose Mr. Gray's judgment to hisj 
I must own givf s me some satisfaction; ai;d to enjoy it, I am 
willing to risk that imputation of vanity, which may probably fall 
to my share for having published this letter I must add, howtvar, 
that some of my friends advised it for the sake of the more generai 
criticisms which they thought t«o Taluable tQ be suppressed 



28 GRAY S LETTERS. 

knew: one could not make them a bow if 
one had met them at a public place. 

I always admired that interruption of the 
Druids to Evelina, Peace, virgin, peace, &c. 
and chietly the abstract idea personified (to 
use the words of a critic) at the end of it. 
That of Caractacus, Would save my queen^ &.c. 
and still more that, / know it, reverend fa- 
thers, His Heaven\s high will, kc. to Fve done, 
begin the rites ! This latter is exemplary 
for the expression (always the great point 
with me); I do not mean by expression 
the mere choice of words, but the whole 
dress, fashion, and arrangement of a thought. 
Here, in particular, it is the brokennes«, 
the uAgrammatical position, the total subver- 
sion of the period that charms me. All that 
ushers in the incantation from Try we yet, 
what holiness can do, I am delighted with in 
quite another w.iy; for this is pure poetry, 
as it ought to be, forming the proper transi- 
tion, and leading on the mind to that still 
purer poetr}^ that follows it. 

In the beginning of the succeeding act, I 
admire the chorus again. Is it not now the 
hour, the holy hour, &c. and their evasion of 
a lie, Say'^st thou, proud boy, &c. and skep 
with the unsunn''d silver, which is an example 
ef a dramatic simile. The sudden appear- 



«ray's letters. 29 

ance of Caractacus, the pretended respect 
and admiration of Vellinus,and the probability 
of his story, the distrust of the Druids, and 
their reasoning with Caractacus, and par- 
ticularly that 'Tis m€(t thou shouldst^ tiiou 
art a king, &lc. and Mark inc, p,ince, the 
time will come, when destiny, k,c. are well, 
and happily imagined. Apropos, of the last 
stiiking passage 1 have mentioned, I am going 
to make a digression. 

When we treat a subject, where the man- 
ners are almost lost in antiquit}^^, our stock of 
ideas must needs be sm;dl; atid nothing be- 
trays our poverty more, than the returning 
to, and harping frequently on, one image. 
It was therefore I thought 30U should omit 
some lines before, though good in them- 
selves, about the scifthcd car, that the pas- 
sage now before us might appear with 
greater lustre when it came; and in this I 
see you have complied with me. But there 
are other ideas here and there still, that 
occur too often, particularly about the oaks, 
some of which 1 would discard to make 
way for the rest. 

But the subjects I speak of to compen- 
sate (and more than con:»pen3ate) that un- 
avoidable poverty, have one great advan- 
tage, when they fail into good hands. They 



30 gray's letters. 

leave an unbounded liberty to pure imagi- 
nation and liction (our favourite provinces), 
where no critic can molest, or antiquary 
gainsay us; and yet (to please me) tiiese 
tictions must have some affinity, some seem- 
ing connexion, with that little we really 
know of the character and customs of the 
people. For example, I never heard in 
my days that midnight and the moon were 
sisters; that th^ y carried rods of ebony and 
gold, or met to whisper on the top of a 
mountain: but now 1 could lay my life it 
is all true; and do not doubt it will be 
found so in some pantheon of the Druids, 
•that is to be discovered in the library at 
Herculaneum. The Car of Destiny and 
Death, is a very noble invention of the 
same class, and, as far as that goes, is so 
fine, that it makes me more delicate, than 
perhaps I should be, about the close of it. 
Andraste sailing on the wings of Fame, that 
snatches the wreaths from oblivion to hang 
them on her loftiest Amaranth, though a 
clear and beautiful piece of unknown my- 
thology, has too Greek an air to give me 
perfect satisfaction. 

Now I proceed. The preparation to the 
chorus, though po much akin to that in the 
former act, is excellent. The remarks of 



gray's letters. 31 

Evelina and her suspicions of the brothers, 
mixed with a secret inclination tothejoun- 
ger of them (though, I think, her part 
throughout wants re-touching) yet please me 
much, and the contrivance of the following 
scene much more. Masters of Wisdo.n. no, 
&c. I id ways admired; as I do the rocking 
stone, and the distress of Elidurus Eveli- 
na's examination of him is a vvell invented 
scene, and will be, with a little pains, a 
very touching oiie; but the introduction of 
Arviragus is superlative. I am not sure 
whether those few lines of his short narra- 
tive, Mi/ strength repaired At boots not, that I 
teit^ &.C. do not please me as much as any 
thing in the whole drama. The sullen bra- 
very of Elidurus, the menaces of the cho- 
rus, that Think not, religion, &c. the trum- 
pet of the Druids, ihixiVll follow himAhoiigh 
in my chains, &lc. Hast thou a brother, no, 
&,c. the placability of the chorus, when they 
see the motives of Elidurus'- obstinacy, give 
me great contentment: so do the reflections 
of the Druid on the necessity of lustration, 
and the reasons for V^ellinus's easy escape; 
but I would not have hi n seise on a spear, 
nor issue hasty through the cavern\s mouth. 
Why should he not steal away, unasked and 
vinmissed, till the hurry of passions in those, 



32 gray's letters. 

that should have guarded him, was a little 
abated? But I chiefly admire the two speeches 
of Elidurus; Ah, Veilinus., is this then, &c. 
and Ye do gaze on mc, tuthir.s, &c. the man- 
ner in which the chorus reply to him is 
very fine; but the image at the end wants a 
little mending. The next scene is highly 
moving! it is so very good, that I must have 
it made yet belter. 

Now for the hist act. I do not know 
what you would have, but to me the design 
and contrivance of it is at least equal to any 
part of the whole. The short- lived triumph 
of the Britons, the address of Caractacus to 
the Roman victims, Evelina's discovery of 
the ambush, the mistake of the Roman fires 
for the rising sun, the death of Arviragus, 
the interview between Didius and Caracta- 
cus, his mourning over his dead son, his 
parting speech (in which you have made all 
tne use of Tacitus that your plan would ad- 
mit), every thing, in short, but that little dis- 
pute between Didius and him; '7'iA well; and 
thfrefore to incnafic that reverence, &c. down 
to Give me a moment (which must be omitted, 
or put in the mouth of the Druids), I ap- 
prove in the highest degree. If I should 
find any fliult with the last act, it could only 
be with trifles and little expressions. If 



GRAY S LETTERS. 



you make any alterations, I fear it will 
never improve it; I mean as to the plan. I 
send you back the two last sheets, because 
you bid me. I reserve my nibblings and 
minutiae for another day. 



XCIX. 

to MR. MASON. 

Cambridge, Dee. 19, 1757. 

\ LIFE Spent out of the world has its Lours 
■ if despondence, its inconveniences, its suf- 
ferings, as numerous and as real, though not 
quite of the same sort, as a life spent in the 
midst of it. The power we have, when we 
will exert it over our own minds, joined to 
a little strength and consolation, nay, a little 
pride we catch from those that seem to love 
us, is our only support in either of these 
conditions. I am sensible I cannot return 
you more of this assistance than 1 have re- 
ceived from you; and can only toil you, 
that one who has far more reason than you, 
I hope, ever will have to look on life with 
something worse than indifference, is yet no 
enemy to it; but can look backward on 
many bitter moments, partly with .satisfi'c- 

VOL. IF. 19 



34 GRAV'S LETTERS. 

tion, and partly with patience; and forward 
too, on a scene not very promising, with 
some hope, and some expectations of a bet- 
ter day. The cause, however, which oc- 
casioned your reflection (though I can judge 
but very imperfectly of it) does not seem, at 
present, to be weighty enough to make you 
take any such resolution as you meditate. 
Use it in its season, as a relief from what is 
tiresome to you, but not as if it was in con- 
sequence of any thing you take ill; on the 
contrary, if such a thing had happened at 
the time of your transmigration, I would 
defer it merely to avoid that appearance. 

As to myself, 1 cannot boast, at present, 
cither of my spirits, my situation, my em- 
ployments, or fertility. The days and the 
nights pass, and I am never the nearer to 
any thing, but that one to which we are all 
tending; yet I love people that lenve some 
traces of their journey behind them, and 
have strength enough to advise you to do so 
while you can. I expect to see Caracta- 
cus completed, and therefore I send yov. the 
books you wanted. I do n-^t know whether 
they will furnish you with Huy new matter; 
but they are well enough written, and easily 
read. I told you before that (in a time of 
dearth) I would borrow from the Edda, 



gray's letters. 35 

without entering too minutely on particulars: 
but, if I did so, I would make each image so 
clear, that it mi2;ht be fully understood by 
itself; for in this obscure mythology we 
must not hint at things, as we do with the 
Greek fables, that every body is supposed 
to know at school. However, on second 
thoughts, I think it would be still better to 
graft any wild picturesque fable, absolutely 
of one's own invention, on the Druid-stock; 
1 mean on those half dozen of old fancies 
that are known to be a part of their system. 
This will give you more freedom and lati- 
tude, and will leave no hold for the critics 
to fasten on. 

I send you back the elegy"^ as you desired 
me to do. My advices are always at your 
service to take or refuse, therefore you 
should not call them severe. You know I 
do not love, much less pique myself on cri- 
ticism; and think even a bad verse as good 
a thing or better than the best observation 
that ever was made upon it. — I like greatly 
the spirit and sentiment of it (much of which 
you perhaps owe to your present train o£ 
thinking); the disposition of the whole too 
is natural and elegiac; as to the expression, 

* Elegy in the garden of a friend. 



36 gray's letters. 

I would venture to say (did not you forbid 
me) that it is sometimes too easy. The last 
line 1 protest against (this, you will say, is 
worse than blotting out rhymes); the descrip- 
tive part is excellent. 

Pray, when did 1 pretend to finish, or 
even insert passages into other people's 
works, as if it were equally easy to pick 
holes and to mend them? All I can say is, 
(hat your elegy must not end with the worst 
line in it.* It is flat; it is prose: whereas 
that, above all, ought to sparkle, or at least 
to shine. If the sentiment must stand, twirl 
it a little into an apothegm; stick a flower in 
it; gild it with a costly expression; let it 
strike the fancy, the ear, or the heart, and 
I am satisfied. 

The other particular expressions which I 
object to, I mark on the manuscript. Novv, 
I desire you would neither think me severe, 
nor at all regard what 1 say further than as 
it coincides with your own judgment, for 
the child deserves your ])artiality; it is a 
healthy well-made boy, with an ingenuous 
countenance, and promises to live long. I 

* All attempt was accordingly made to improve it; Jiow it 
stood when this cviticisra upon it was written, I cannot now iv- 
coHect. 



GRAY S LETTERS. 3v 

would only wash its face, dress it a little, 
make it walk upright and strong, and keep 
it Iroin learning pa/v words. 

I hope you couched my refusal* to lord 
John Cavendish in as respectful terms as 
possible, and with all due acknowledgment 
to the duke. If you hear who it is to be 
given to, pray let nie know; for I interest 
myself a little in the history of it, and rather 
wish somebody may accept it that will re- 
trieve the credit of the thing, if it be re- 
trievable, or ever had any credit. — Rowe 
was, I think, the last man of character that 
had it; Eusden was a person of great ho})es 
in his youth, though at last he turned out a 
drunken parson; Dryden was as disgraceful 
to the office, from his character, as the poor- 
est scribbler could have been from his verses. 



C. 



TO DR. WHARTOIV. 

February 21, 1758. 

Would you know what 1 am doing? I doubt 

* of bein? poet laureate on the death of Cibber, which place 
the late duke of Devonshire (then loitl chamberlain) desired his 
brother to ofFer to Mr. Gray : aiid his lordship had commissioned 
me Cthen in town) to write to him concerning it. 



38 gray's letters. 

yon have been told already, and hold my 
employments cheap enough; but every one 
must judge of his own capability, and cut his 
amusements according to his disposition. 
The drift of my present studies is to know, 
wherever I am, what lies within reach that 
may be worth seeing, whether it be build- 
ing, ruin, park, garden, prospect, picture, 
or monument; to whom it does or has be- 
longed, and what has been the characteristic 
and taste of different ages. You will say 
this is the object of all antiquaries; but pray 
what antiquary ever saw these objects in the 
same light, or desired to know them for a 
like reason? In short, say what you please, 
I am persuaded whenever my list* is finish- 
ed you will approve it, Rnd think it of no 
small use. My spirits are very near the 
freezing point; and for some hours of the 
day this exercise, by its warmth and gentle 
motion, serves to raise them a few degrees 
higher. 

I hope the misfortune that has befallen 
Mrs. Gibber's canary bird will not be the 
ruin of Agis: it is probable you will have 
curiosity enough to see it, as it is by the 
author of Douglas. 

* He wrote it, undef its seTeral diyisions, on the blank pages of 
a pocket atlas. 



gray's letters. 39 



CI. 



TO DR. WHARTON. 

Cambridge, Marck 8, 175S. 

It is indeed ibr want of spirits, as you sus- 
pect, that my studies lie aoiong the cathe- 
drals, and the tombs, and the ruins. To think, 
though to little purpose, has been the chief 
amusement of my days; and when 1 would 
not, or cannot think, I dream. At present 
I feel myself able to write a catalogue, or to 
read the peerage book, or Miller's garden- 
ing dictionary and am thankful that there 
are such employments and such authors in 
tlie world. Some people, who hold me 
cheap for this, are doing perhaps what is not 
half so well worth while. As to posterity, 
I may ask, (with somebody whom I have 
forgot) what has it ever done to oblige nie ? 
To make a transition from myself to as 
poor a subject, the tragedy of Agis; 1 cry to 
think that it should be by the author of 
Douglas: why, it is all modern Greek; the 
story is an antique statue painted white and 
red, frizzed, and dressed in a negligee made 
by a Yorkshire mantua-maker. Then here 
is the miscellany (Mr. Dodsley has sent me 



40 GRAY S LETTERS. 

the vvhole set gilt and lettered, I thank him). 
Why, the two last volumes are worse than 
the tour iirst; particularly Dr. Akenside is 
in a uoplorahle way.* What signifies learn- 
ing and the ancients?, (Mtison will say trium- 
phantly) why should people read Greek to 
lose their imagination, their ear, and their 
mother tongue ? But then there is Mr. 
Shenstooe, who trusts to nature and simple 
sentiment, why does he do no hetter? he 
goes hopping along his own gravel-walks, 
and never deviates from the beaten paths 
for fear of being lost. 

I have read Dr. Swift, and am disappoint- 
ed.! There is nothing of the negociations 
that I have not seen better in M. de Torcy 

* I hare been told that this writer, unquestionatly a man of great 
learning and genius, entertained, some years liefore his death, a no- 
tion tliat Poetrif was only true eloquence in metre; ar.d, according 
to this idea, wrote his ode to the country gentlemen of Ei;gl:\nd, 
and afterwards made considerable alterations in that collection of 
odes which he had published in the earlier part of his life. We 
have seen in the letter LX,, that Mt. Gray thought highly of his 
descriptive talents at that time. We are not therefore to impute 
what he here says to any prejudice in the critic, but to that change 
of taste in the poet, which (if the above arecdete lie true) would 
unavoidably flatten his descriptions, and divest them of all pic- 
turesque imagery ; nay, would sometimes convert bis verse into 
mere prose ; or, what is still worse, hard inflated prose. 

t His history of the four last years of queen Anne. 



gray's letters. 41 

before. The manner is careless, and has 
little to distinguish it from common writers. 
I meet with nothing to please me but the 
spiteful characters of the opposite party and 
its leaders. I expected much more secret 
history. 



CII. 

TO MR. STONHEWER. 

Cambridge, August 18, 1758. 

1 AM as sorry as you seem to be, that our ac 
quaintance harped so much on the subject of 
materiahsm, when I saw him with you in 
town, because it was plain to which side of 
the long-debated question he inclined. That 
we are indeed mechanical and dependent 
beings, I need no other procf than my own 
feelings; and from the same feelings I learn, 
with equal conviction, that we are not merely 
such: that there is a power within that strug- 
gles against the force and bias of that me- 
chanism, commands its motion, and, by fre- 
quent practice, reduces it to that ready obe- 
dience, which we call habit ; and all this in 
conformity to a preconceived opinion (no 
matter whether right or wrong) to that least 



42 

material of all agents, a thonght. I have 
known many in his case who, while they 
thoiiixht thej were conquering an old pre- 
judice, did not perceive thej' were under the 
influence of or-e far more dangerous; one 
that furnishes us with a ready apology for 
all our worst actions, and opens to us a full 
licence for doing whatever we please; and 
yet these very people were not at all the 
more indulgent to other men (as they na- 
turally should have been); their indignation 
to such as offended them, their desire of re- 
venge on any body that hurt them was 
nothing mitigated : in short, the truth is, 
they wished to he persuaded of that opinion 
for the sake of its convenience, but were not 
so in their heart; and they would have been 
glad (as they ought in common prudence) 
that nobody else should think the same, for 
fear of the mischief that might ensue to 
themselves. His French author I never 
saw, but have read fifty in the same strain, 
and shall read no more. I can be wretched 
enough without them. They put me in mind 
of the Greek sophist that got immortal hon- 
our by discoursing so feelingly on the mise- 
ries of our condition, that fifty of his audience 
went home and hanged themselves ; yet he 
lived himself (I suppose) many years after 
in very good plight. 



gray's letters. 43 

You say you cannot conceive how lord 
ShnflesbuP}' came to be a philosopher in 
vo;^iie; I will tell you: tirst, he was a lord; 
2{11y, he wis as vain as any of his readers; 
3(]iy men are very prone to believe what 
they do not understand; 4thly, they will be- 
lieve any thing at all, provided they are un- 
der no obligation to believe it; 5thly, they 
love to tike a new road, even when that 
road leads no where; 6thly, he was reckon- 
ed a fine writer, and seemed always to m^aa 
more than he said. Would you have any 
more reasons? An interv;d of above forty 
years has pretty well destroyed the charm. 
A ilead lord ranks but with commoners : 
variity is no longer interested in the matter, 
for the new road is become an old one. 
The mode of free-tliinking is like that of 
ruffs and farthingale?, and has given place to 
the mode of not thinking at all; once it was 
reckoned graceful, half to discover and half 
conceal the mind, but now we have been 
long accustomed to see it quite naked: prim- 
ness and affectation of style, like the good 
breeding of queen Anne'« rv)i rt, has turned 
to hoydeninj; and rude familiarity. 



44 gray's letters. 



STRICTURES ON THE WRITINGS OF 
LORD BOLINGBROKE. 

"I will allow lord Bolingbroke, that the 
moral, as well as physical, attributes of God 
must be known to us only a posteriori, and 
that this is the ordy real knowledge we can 
have either of the one or the other; I will 
allow too, that perhaps it may be an idle dis- 
tinction which we make between them: his 
Hior.il attributes being as much in his nature 
and essence as those we call his physical; 
but the occasion of our making some distinc- 
tion is plainly this : his eternity, infinity, 
omniscience, and almighty power, are not 
what coimect him, if 1 may so speak, with 
us his creatures We adore him, not be- 
cause he always did., in every place, and al- 
ways will, exist; but because he gave and 
still preserves to us our own existence by 
an exertion of his goodness. We adore him, 
not because he knows and can do all things, 
but because he made us capable of knowing 
and of doing what may conduct us to happi' 
ness: it is therefore his benevolence which 
we adore, not his greatness or power; and 
if we are made only to bear our part in a 
system, without any regard to our own par- 



gray's letters. 4o 

ticular happiness, we can no longer worship 
him as our all-bounteous parent: there is 
no meaning in the term. The idea of his 
male violence (an impiety I tremble to write) 
must succeed. We have nothing left but our 
fears, and those too, vain; for whither can 
they lead but to despair and the sad desire 
of annihilation? "If then, justice and good- 
ness be not the same in God as in our ide.is, 
we mean nothing when we say that God is 
necessai'ily just and good; and for the same 
reason, it may as well be said that we know 
not what we mean when, according to Dr. 
Clarke, (Evid. 26th) we affirm that he is 
necessarily a vvise and intelligent Being." 
What then can lord Bolingbroke mean, when 
he says every thing shows the wisdom of 
God ; and yet adds, every thing does not 
show in like manner the goodness of God 
conformably to our ideas of this attribute in 
either ? — By wisdom he must only mean, 
that God knows and employs the fittest 
means to a certain end, no matter what that 
end may be: this indeed is a proof of know- 
ledge and intelligence; but these alone do 
not constitute wisdom; the word implies the 
application of these fittest means to the 
best and kindest end; or who will call it true 
wisdom? Even amongst ourselves, it is not 



46 gray's letters. 

held as such. All the attributes, then, that he 
seems to think apparent in the constitution 
of things, are his unity, infinity, eternity, 
avMi intelligence; from no one of which, 1 
boldly atiirrn, can result any duty of gratitude 
or adoration incumbent on mankind, more 
than if He and all things round him were 
produced, as some have dared to think, by 
the necessary working of eternal matter in 
an intinite vacuum; for what does it avail to 
add intelligence to those other physical at- 
tributes, unless that intelligence be directed, 
not only to the good of the whole, but also 
to the good of every individual of which that 
whole is composed. 

It is therefore no impiety, but the direct 
contrary, to say that human justice, and the 
other virtues, which are indeed only various 
applications of human benevolence, boar 
some resemblance to the moral attributes of 
the supreme Being: it is only by means of 
that resemblance, we conceive them in him, 
or their effects in his works: it is by the 
same means only, that we comprehend those 
physical attributes which his lordship allows 
to be demonstrable: how can we form any 
notion of his unity, hut from that unity of 
which we ourselves are conscious ? How of 
his existence, but from our own conscious- 



GRAY S LETTERS. 47 

uess of existing ? How of his power, but of 
that power wnich we experience in our- 
selves ? yet neither lord Boiingbroke nor 
any other man, that thought on these sub- 
jects, ever believed that these our ideaa 
were real and full representations of these 
attributes in the divinity. They say, He 
knows; they do not mean that he compares 
ideas which he acquired from sensation, and 
draws conclusioas from them. They say, He 
acts; they do not mean by impulse, nor as 
the soul acts on an organized body. They 
say, He is omnipotent and eternal; yet on 
what are their ideas founded, but on our 
own narrow conceptions of space and dura- 
tion, prolonged beyond the bounds of place 
and time ? Either therefore there is a re- 
semblance and analogy (however imperfect 
and distant) between the attributes of the 
divinity and our conceptions of them, or we 
cannot have any conceptions of them at all. 
He allows we ought to reason from earth, 
that we do know, to heaven, which we da 
not know: how can we do so, but by that 
affinity, which appears between one and the 
other ? 

In vain then does my lord attempt to ridi- 
cule the warm but melancholy imagination of 
Mr. Wollaston, in that tine sohloquy: '*Must 



48 gray's letters. 

1 then bid my last farevvel] to these walks 
when 1 close these lids, and yonder blue re- 
gions, and all tliis scene (!aiken upon me and 
go out ? Must 1 then only serve to furnish 
dust to be mingled with the ash.es of these 
herds and ph-uits, or with this dirt under my 
feet ? Have 1 been set so f«r above them in 
life, only to be levelled with them in 
death ?"''^ No thinkmg head, no heart, that 
has the least sensibility, but must have made 
the same reflection; or at least must feel, 
not the beauty alone, but the truth of it, 
when he hoars it from the mouth of another. 
Non' vv'hat reply will lord Boliugbroke make 
to these questions which are put to him, not 
only by Wollaston, but by all mankind ? He 
will {<-ll you, that we, that is, the animals, \ eg- 
etables, siones, and other clcds of earth ^ are all 
connected in one immense design, that we are 
all drariiatis personas, in different characters, 
and that we were not made for ourselves, 
but for the action: that it is foolish, pre- 
simrptuous, impious, and profane to murmur 
against the Almighty Anther of this dran}a, 
when we feel ourselves una.voidably unhap- 
py. On the contrary, we ought io rest our 
head on the soft pillow of resignation, on the 

* Religion of Nature delineated, sect. ix. p. 209, quarto. 



gray's letters. 49 

iiiiinoveable rock of trnnquillity; secure, that 
if our pturis and afflictioiis grow violent in- 
deed, an immediate end will be put to our 
miserable being, and we slia'.i be mingled 
with the dirt under our feet, a thing com- 
mon to all the animal kind; and -of which he 
who complains does not seem to have been 
set by his reason so far above them in life, 
as to deserve not to be mingled with them 
in death. Such is the consolation his philo- 
sophy gives us, and such the hope on which 
his tranquillity was founded."^ 



cm. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Sunday, April 9, 1758. 

I AM equally sensible of your affliction,! and 
of your kindness, that made you think of me 
at such a moment; would to God 1 could 
lessen the one, or requite the other with 

• The reader, who would choose to see the argument, as lord 
Bolir.glnoke puts it, will find it in the 4th volume of his philoso- 
phical works, sect x. 4\ His rlc'icule on Wollastoii is in the aOth 
seciion of the same volume. 

+ Occasioned by the death of his eldest (and at the time his only) 
son. 

VOL. IV. 20 



5G gray's letters. 

that consolation which I have often received 
from you when I most wanted it ! but your 
grief is too just, and the cause of it too fresh, 
to admit of any such endeavour. What, in- 
deed, is all human consolation ? Can it efface 
every little amiable word or action of an ob- 
ject we loved, from our memory ? Can it 
convince us, that all the hopes we had en- 
tertained, the plans of future satisiiiction we 
had formed, were ill-grounded and vain, only 
because we have lost them ? The only 
comfort (I am afraid) that belongs to our 
condition, is to reflect (when time has given 
us leisure for reflection) that others have 
suffered worse; or that we ourselves might 
have suffered the same misfortune, at times 
and in circumstances that would probably 
have aggravated our sorrow. You might 
have seen this poor child arrived at an age 
to fuliil all your hopes, to attach you more 
strongly to him by long habit, by esteem, as 
well as natural affection, and that towards 
the decline of your life, when we most stand 
in need of support, and when he might 
chance to have been your onfy support; and 
then by some unforeseen and deplorable ac- 
cident, or some painful lingering distemper, 
you might have lost him. Such has been 
he fate of many an unhappy father ! I know 



gray's letters. 51 

there is a sort of tenderness which infancy 
and innocence alone produce; but I think 
you must own the other to be a stronger and 
a more overwhelming sorrow. Let me then 
beseech you to try, by everj method of avo- 
cation and amusement, whether yon cannot, 
by degrees, get the better of that dejection 
of spirits, which inclines you to see every 
thing in the worst light possible, and throws 
a sort of voluntary gloom, not only over 
your present, but future days; as if evea 
your situation now were not preferable 
to that of thousands round you; and as if 
your prospect hereafter might not open as 
much of happiness to you as to any person 
you know: the condition of our life per- 
petually instructs us to be rather slow to 
hope, as well as to despair; and (I know you 
will forgive me, if I tell you) you are often 
a little too hasty in both, perhaps from con- 
stitution: it is sure we have great power over 
our own minds, when we choose to exert it; 
and though it be difficult to resist the me- 
chanic impulse and bias of our own temper, 
it is yet possible, and still m.ore so to delay 
those resolutions it inclines us to take, which 
we almost always have cause to repent. 

You tell me nothing of Mrs. Wharton's or 
your own state of health; I will not talk to 



52 gray's letters. 

you more upon this subject till I hear you 
are both well; for that is the grand point, 
and without it we may as well not think at 
all. You flatter me in thinking that any 
thing I can do* could at all alleviate the just 
concern your loss has given you; but 1 can- 
not flatter myself so iar, and know how little 
qualified lam at present to give any satisfac- 
tion to myself on this head, and in this way, 
much less to you. I by no means pretend 
to inspiration; but yet 1 aflirm, that the fa- 
culty in question is by no means voluntary; 
it is the result (I suppose) of a certain dis- 
position of mind, which does not depend on 
one's self, and which I have not felt this 
long time. You that are a witness how sel- 
dom this spirit has moved me in my life, 
may easily give credit to what I say. 



CIV. 

TO MR. PALGRAVE.t 

Stdce, Sept. 6, 1758. 

1 DO not know how to make you amends, 

* His fiiaid had requested him to write an epitaph on the child, 
t Rector of Palgrave and Thrandtston in Suffolk. He was mak" 
ing a tour in Scotland when this letter was wvitten to hini. 



eRAY's LETTERS. 63 

having neither rock, ruin, nor precipice 
near me to send you: they do not grow in 
the south: but only say the word, if you 
would have a compact neat box of red brick 
with sash windows, or a grotto made of flints 
and shell-work, or a walnut-tree with three 
mole-hills under it, stuck with honey-suckles 
round a basin of gold-lishes, and you shall 
be satisfied; they shall come by the Edin- 
burgh coach. 

In the mean time I congratulate you on 
your new acquaintance with the savage, the 
rude, and the tremendous. Pray, lell me, is 
it any thing like what you had read in your 
book, or seen in two-shilling prints? Do not 
you think a rnan may be tiie wiser (I had 
almost said the better) for going a hundred 
or two of miles; and that the mind has more 
room in it than most people seem to think, 
if you will but furnish the apartments? I 
almost envy your last month, being in a very 
insipid situation m3'sclf ; and desire you 
would not fail to send me some furniture for 
my Gothic apartment, which i> very cold at 
present. It will be the easier task, as you 
have nothing to do but transcribe your little 
red books, if they are not rubbed out; for I 
conclude you have not trusted every thing to 
memory, which is ten times worse than a 



54 

lead-pencil: half a word fixed upon or near 
the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection. 
When we trust to the picture that objects 
draw of themselves on our mind, we deceive 
ourselves; without accurate and particular 
observation, it is but ill-drawn at first, the 
outlines are soon blurred, the. colours every 
day grow fainter; and at last, when we could 
produce it to any body, we are forced to 
supply its defects with a few strokes of our 
own imagination.* God forgive me, 1 sup- 
pose I have done so myself before now, and 
misled many a good body that put their trust 
in me. Pray, tell me, (but with permission, 
and without any breach of hospitality') is it 
so much warmer on the other side of the 
Swale (as some people of honour sa>) than 
it is here ? Has the singing of birds, the 
bleating of sheep, the lowing of herds, dea- 
fened you at Rainton ? Did the vast old 
oaks and thick groves in Northumberland 
keev^ off the sun too much from you ? i am 
too civil to extend my inquiries beyond Bf r^ 
wick. Every thing, doubtless, must improve 
upon you as you advanced northward. You 

* Had this letter notlune- else to recommend it, the advice here 
given to the curious travtlltr of making all his memoranda on the 
spot, and the reasons for it, are so wtll expressed^ aiid withal sn 
important, that they certasily deserve our notice. 



GRAY'S LETTERS. 65 

must tell me, though, about Melross, Roslin 
Chiipel, and Arbroath. In short, your port- 
feuille must be so full, that I only desire a 
loose chapter or two, and will wait for the 
rest till it comes out. 



CV. 

TO MR, MASON. 

Stoke, Nov. 9, 1758. 

I SHOULD have told you that Cra<i(iOC came 
safe to hand;* but my critical faculties have 
been so taken up in dividing noiltvis: with an 
old woman,! tliat they are not yet composed 
enough for a better and more tranquil em- 
ployment: stiortly, however, 1 will make 
them obey me. But am I to send this copy 
to Mr. Hurd., or return it to you? Methinks 
1 do not love this travelling to and again of 
manuscripts by the post. While I am writ- 
ing:, your second packet is just arrived. I 
can only tell you in gross, that there seem 
to me certain passages altered which might 

* A seeond'manuscript of Caraclacus with the odes inserted. 
+ Mrs. Roe:ers, his aunt, ditd about this V.iv.e, and left Mi,% 
(Si-ay and Mrs. OJifTc, another ol liis aunts, her joint estcutws. 



56 gray's letters. 

as well have been let alone; and that f shall 
not be easily reconciled to Mador's own 
song.^ I must not have my fancy raised to 
that agreeable pitch of heathenism and wild 
magical enthusiasm, and then have you let 
me drop into moral philosophy and cold 
good sense. J remember you insulted me 
when I saw you last, and affected to call that 
which delighted my imagination, nofisense : 
now i insist that sense is nothing in poetry, 
but according to the dress she wear^, and 
the scene she appears in. If you should 
lead me into a superb Gothic building with a 
thousand clustered pillars, each of them 
half a mile high, the walls all covered with 
fretwork, and the windows full of red and 
blue saints, that had neither head nor tail; 
and I should lind the Venus of Medici in per- 
son perked u"^) in a long niclie over the high 
altar, do you think it would raise or damp 
my devotions? I say that Mador must be 
entirely a Briton; and that his pre-eminence 
among his companions must be shown by su- 
perior wildness, more barbaric fancy, and a 
more striking and deeper harmony both of 
words and numbers: if British antiquity be 

* He means heie the sccoml ocle, vhioh was afterwaidsalteietl. 



gray's letters. 67 

too narrow, this is the place for invention; 
and if it be pure invention, so much the 
clearer must the expression be, and so much 
the stronger and richer the imagery. There's 
for you now! 



CVI. 

TO MR. PALGRAVE. 

London, July 24, 1759. 

I AM now settled in my new territories, com- 
manding Bedtbrd gardens, and all the tields 
as far as Highgate and Hampstead. with 
such a concourse of moving pictures as would 
astonish you; so rus-iii-urbt-i.sh, that I be- 
lieve I shall stay here, except little excur- 
sions and vagaries, for a year to come. 
Whrit though I am separated from the fash- 
ionable world by broad St. Giles's, and 
many a dirty court and alley, yet here is 
air, and sunshine, and quiet. However, to 
comfort you: I shall confess that 1 am bask- 
ing with heat all the summer, and I suppose 
shall be blown down all the winter, besides 
being robbed every ni<:ht; 1 trust, however, 
that the Museum, with all its manuscripts 
and rarities* by the cart-load, will make am- 



68 gray's letters. 

pie amends for all the aforesaid inconvenien- 
ces. 

I this day passed throusjh the jaws of a 
great leviathan into the den of Dr. Temple- 
man, superintendant of the reading-room, 
who congratulated himself on the sight of so 
much good company. We were, lirst, a man 
that writes for Lord Royston; ^dly, a man 
that writes for Dr. Burton, of York: 3dly, a 
man that writes for the emperor of Germany, 
or Dr Pocock, for he speaks the worst En- 
glish I ever heard; 4thly, Dr. Stukely, who 
writes for himself, the very worst person he 
could write for; and, laftly, I, who only 
read to know if there be any thin;j; worth 
writing, and that not witiiont some difficulty. 
I find that they printed ICOO copies of the 
Harleian catalogue, and have sold only four- 
score; that they have 9i)0l. a year income, 
and spend 1300/. and are building apart- 
ments for the under keepers; so 1 expect in 
winter to see the collection advertised and 
set to aiM^tion. 

Have 3'ou read lord Clarendon's continua- 
tion of his history ? Do you remember 
Mr. * * *'s account of it before it came out? 
How well he recollected all the faults, and 
how utterly he forgot all the beautiesi Sure- 
ly the grossest taste is better t-han such a 
sort of dehcacv. 



gray's letters. 59 



CVIf. 



TO DR. WHARTON. 

London, June 22, 1760. 

I AM not sorry to hear yon are exceeding 
busy, except as it has deprived me of the 
pleasure I should have in hearing often from 
you: and as it has been occasioned by a lit- 
tle vexation and disapj^ointment. 'Jo find 
one's self business, I am persuaded, is the 
great art of life; I am never so ano;ry, as 
when I hear my acquaintance wishina: they 
had been bred to some poking profession, or 
employed in some office of drudgery, as if it 
were pleasanter to be at the command of 
other people than at one's own; and as if 
they could not go unless they were wound 
up: yet I know and feel what they mean by 
this complaint; it proves that some spirit, 
something of genius (more than common) is 
reiiuired to teach a man how to employ him- 
self: I say a man; for women, commonly 
speaking, never feel this distemper; the}^ 
have ahvays something to do; time hnngs 
not on their hands (unless they be fine 
ladies); a variety of small .inventions and 
occupations fill up the void, and their eyes 
are never open in vaio. 



60 gray's letters. 

As to myself, I have again found rest for 
the sole of my gouty foot in your old dining- 
room,*" and hope that you will find at least 
an equal satisfaction at Old-Park; if your 
bog prove as comfortable as my oven, I 
shall see no occasion to pity you, and only 
wish you may brew no worse than I bake. 

You totally mistake my talents, when you 
impute to me any magical skill in planting 
roses: I know I am no conjurer in these 
things; when they are done I can find fault, 
and that is all. Now this is the veiy re- 
verse of genius, and 1 feel my own little- 
ness. Reasonable people know themselves 
better than is commonly imagined; and 
therefore (though I never saw any instance 
of it,; I believe Mason when he tells me 
that he understands these things. The pro- 
phetic eye of Uiste (as Mr. Pitt calls it) sees 
all the beauties that a place is susceptible of, 
long before they are born; and when it 
plants a seedling, already sits under the 
shadow of it, and enjoys the effect it will 
have from every point of view that lies in 
prospect. You must therefore invoke Ca- 

* Theliouse in Soutliampton-Row. where Mr. Gray lodged, liad 
been tenanted by Dr. Wharton ; who, on account of his ill htalth, 
left Loiidon the year before, aud was remov«i to his paternal estate 
at 01d-Psu-k,ne^- Ouihiiin. 



GRAY S LETTERS. til 

lactacus, and he vvill send his spirits from 
the top of Snovvdon to Cross-fell or Warden- 
law. 

I am much obliged to you for your antique 
nens. Froissard is a favourite book of 
mine (though 1 have not attentively read 
him, but only dipped here and there); and 
it is strange to me that people, who would 
give thousands for a dozen portraits (origi- 
nals of that time) to furnish a gallery, should 
never cast an eye on so many moving pic-- 
tures of the life, actions, manners, and 
thoughts of their ancestors, done on the spot, 
and in strong, though simple colours. In 
the succeedir)g century Froissard, I find, 
was read with great satisfaction by every 
body that could read; and on the same foot- 
ing with king Aithur, sir Tiistram, and arch- 
bishop Turpin: not because they thought 
him a fabulous writer, but because they 
took them all for true and authentic histo- 
rians; to so little purpose was it in that age 
for a man to be at the pains of writing 
truth. Pray, are you come to the four Irish 
kings that went to school to king Richard 
the Second's master of the ceremonies, and 
the man who informed Froissard of all he 
had seen in St. Patrick's purgatory? 



62 gray's letters. 

The town are readinij the king of Prus- 
sia's poetry {Le P/{ihsophe sans Souci), and 
I have' (lone like the town; they do not 
seem so sick of it as I am: It is all the scum 
of Voltaire and lord Bolifigbroke, the Cram- 
be recocta of our worst freethinkers, tossed 
up in German-French rhyme. Tristram 
Shandy is still a greater object of admiration, 
the man as well as the book; one is invited 
to dinner, where he dines, a fortniji;ht be- 
fore: as to the volumes yet published, there 
is much good fun in them, and humour some- 
times hit and sometimes Tnissed. Have you 
read his sermons, with his own comic figure, 
from a painting by Reynolds at the head of 
them? They are in the style I tiiink most 
proper for the pulpit,* and show a strong 

* Our author was of opinion, tliat it was the business of the 
preacher rather to persuade: by the power of eloquence to the 
practice of known duties, than to reason with the ait of logic oti 
points of contro-erted doctrine : Hence, therefore, I>f thought 
that soinetiir.es iiiiagiit&tion rright not be out of its place in a 
sermon. But let him speaU for himself in an extract fi*oni one of 
bis letters to me in the following year: "Your quotation from 
Jeremy Taylor is a fine on. . I have long thought of reading him ; 
for I am persuaded thut chopping logic in the pulpit, «s our 
divines have done ever since (he revolution, is n.t the tl ing; but 
that iniagiifttionap.d v\:nn.th of expression, are in their place there, 

as much as on tbt siagt ; moderated, however, and chastised a 

little by the purity and severity of religion." 



gray's letters. 6o 

imagination and a sensible heart ; but you 
see him often tottering on the vero;e of 
laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in 
the face of the auiiience. 



CVIII. 

TO MR. STONHIlWER. 

London, June 29, 1760. 

Though you have had but a melancholy 
employment, it is worthy of envy, and I 
hope will have all the success it deserves.* 
It was the best and most natural method of 
cure, and such as could not have been ad- 
ministered by any but your gentle hand. I 
thank you for communicating to me what 
must give you so much satisfaction- 

I too was reading M. D'Alembert,! and 
(like you) am totally disappointed in his 
elements. I could only taste a little of the 
first course : it was dry as a stick, hard as a 
stone, and cold as a cucumber. But then 

* Mr. Stonhewer was now at Houghton-le-Spring, in the bishop- 
rick of Durham, attending on his sick father, rector of that parish. 

t Two subsequent volumes of his " Melanges de Literatiu'e et 
Philosophic." 



64 GRAY S LETTERS^ 

the letter to Ronsseau is like himself; 
and the discourses on elocution, and on tlie 
liberty of mnsic, are divine. He has add- 
ed to his translations fr»m Tacitus ; and 
(what is remarkable) thonch that author's 
manner niore nearly resembles the best 
French writers of the present age, than any 
thins^, be totally fails in the attempt. Is it 
his fault, or that of the language ? 

I have received another Scotch packet,* 
with a third specimen, inferior in kind, (be- 

* Of the fragments of Erse poe'ry, iwany of which Mr Gray 
saw in snanuscript before they were published. In a letter to Dr. 
Wharton, written in the following month, li ' thus expn sies him- 
self on the same snbje<t : If you liave seen Mr. Sionhewer, he lias 
probably told you of my old Scotch (or rather Trisli) pot try : I am 
gone mad about them ; tby are said to be translations (literal and 
in prose) from ihe Etse tongue, done by one Macpherson, a yoinig 
clergyman in the Highlands. He means to publish a collection 
he has of thtse sneeimens of antiquity, if it lie antiquity ; but what 
perplexes me is, I caimot ccme at any certainty on that head. I 
was so struck with their lieauty, tha' I writ into Scotlaiid to make 
a thousand inquiries ; the letters I liave in return, are ill wrote, 
ill rtasonod, unsatisfactory calculated (o'le would imagine) to de- 
ceive, and yet not cunning enougli to do it cleverly- In short the 
whole e.xternal evidence would make one lielieve these fiagments 
counti rfeit : but tlie inter:ial is so sriting on the other side, that I 
am res>>lved to believe tliem gtauine, spite of the devil and the 
kirk : it is impossible to conceive that ihey were written Iiy the 
sam(.: man that writes me these letters ; on the othir liand, it is 
almost as hard to suppose (if they are original) that lie should be able 
to translate tiiem so admirably. In shoit, this man is the v»-ry 



gray's letters. 65 

cause It IS merely description) but yet full 
of nature and noble wild imagination. Five 
bards pass the night at the castle of a chief 
Hiiraself a principal bard) ; each goes out 
in his turn to observe the face of things, 
and returns with an extern porie picture of 
the changes he has seen (it is an October 
night, the harvest-month of the Highlands). 
This is the whole plan ; yet there is a con- 
trivance, and a preparation of ideas, that 
you would not expect. The oddest thing is, 
that every one of tliem sees ghosts (more or 
less). The idea, that struck and surprised 
me most, is the following. One of them 
describing a storm of wind and rain) says. 

Ghosts ride on the tempest to-night : 

Sweet is their voice between the gusts of wind : 

Their songs are of otfier -worlds! 

Did you never observe {while rocking win^l^ 
are piping^ loud) that pause, as the gust is 
recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear 
in a shrill and plaintive note, like the swell 
of an yEolian harp ? I do assure you there 

daemon of poetry, or he has lighted on a treasure hid for ages. 
The Welsh poets are also comirg to light ; I hav« seen a discourse 
in Hiannscript about them, by one Mr. Evans, a clergyman with 
specimens of th.-ir wiiting : this is in Latin, and though it doci 
not approach the other, there are fine scraps among it.'' 
VOL. IV. 21 



66 gray's letters. 

is nothing in the world so like the voice of 
a spirit. Thonison had an ear sometimes : 
he was not deaf ta this ; and has described 
it gloriously, but given it another different 
turn, and of more horror. I cannot repeat 
the lines : it is in his Winter. There is 
another very fine picture in one of them. 
It describes the breaking of the clouds after 
the storm, before it is settled into a calm, 
and when the moon is seen by short inter- 
vals. 

The waves arc tumbling on the lake, 

And lash the rocky sidts. 

The boat is biim-full in the cove, 

The oars on the rocking tide. 

Sad sits a maid beneath a cliff, 

And eyes the rolluig stream ; 

Her lover promised to come, 

She saw his boat [when it was evening] on the lake ; 

Are these his groans in the gole ? 

Is this his broken boat on the shore ? 



CIX. 

TO DR. CLARKE.* 

Pembroke Hall, Augtist 12, 1760. 

Not knowing whether you are jet returned 

* Physician at Epsom. With this gentleman Mr. Gray com- 
menced an early acquaintance at ^college. 



gray's letters. 67 

from your sea- water, I write at random to 
you. For me, I am come to my resting- 
place, and find it very necessary, after living 
for a month in a house with three women 
that laughed from morning to night, and 
would allow nothing to the sulkiness of my 
disposition. Company and cards at home, 
parties by land and water abroad, and (what 
they call) doing something, that is, racketting 
about from morning to night, are occupa- 
tions, 1 find, that wear out my spirits, es- 
pecially in a situation where one might sit 
still, and be alone with pleasure; for the 
])lace was a hill* like Ciiefden, opening to 
a very extensive and diversified landscape, 
with the Thames, which is navigable, run- 
ning at its foot. 

I would wish to continue here (in a very 
different scene, it must be confessed) till 
Michaelmas ; but I fear 1 must come to 
town much sooner. Cambridge is a delight 
of a place, now there is no body in it. I 
do believe you would like it, il you knew 
what it was without inhabitants. It is they, 
I assure you, that get it an ill name and 
spoil all. Our friend Dr. * * * (one of its 
nuisances) is not expected here again in a 

* Near Henley. 



68 GRAk's LETTERS, 

hurry. He is gone to his grave with five 
fine mackarel (large and full of roe) in his 
belly. He eat them all at one dinner ; but 
his fate was a turbot on Trinity Sunday, of 
which he left little for the company besides 
bones. He had not been hearty ail the 
week; but after this sixth tish he never 
held up his head more, and a violent loose- 
ness carried him off. — They say he made a 
very good end. 

Have you seen the Erse fragments since 
they were printed ? I am more puzzled 
than ever about their antiquity, though 
I still incline (against every body's opinion) 
to believe them old. Those you have al- 
ready seen are the best ; though there are 
some others that are excellent too. 



ex. 



TO MR. MASON. 

Cambridge, August 20, 1760. 

I HAVE sent Musasus* back tis you desired 
me, scratched here and there. And with 

* I bad desired Mv. Gray to revise my Monody on Mr. Pope's 

death. 



gray's letters. Q9 

it also a bloody Satire,* written against no 
less persons than 2/om and I by name. I 
concluded at first it was Mr.*^*, because 
he is your friend and my humble servant; 
but then I thought he knew the world too 
well to call us the favourite minions of 
Taste and of Fashion, especially as to odes; 
for to them his ridicule is continod: so it is 
not he, but Mr. Colman, nephew to lady 
Bath, author of the Connoisseur, a member 
of one of the inns of court, and a particular 
acquaintance of Mr. Garrick. What have 
you done to him ? for I never heard his 
name before; he makes very tolerable fun 
with me whei-e I understand him (which is 
not every where); but seems more angry 
with you. Lest people should not under- 
stand the humour of the thino- (which in- 
deed to do they must have our lyricisms at 
their linger ends) letters come out in Lloyd's 
Evening-Post to tell them who and what it 
was that he meant, and ■^•ay it is like to pro- 
duce a great combustion in tlie literary 
world. So if you have any mind to comhus- 
tle about it," well and good .; for me, I am 

* The Parodies in question, er.tiile=<l Odes to Obscurity and 
Oblivion, were written by Lloyd and Colman, 



70 GRAY S LETTERS. 

neither so literary nor so combustible.* 
The Monthly Review, I see, just now has 
much stuff about us on this occasion. It 
says one of us at least has always borne his 
faculties meekly. I leave you to guess . 
which of us that is; I think 1 know. You 
simpleton you ! you must be meek, must 
you? and see what you get by it. 

I do not like your improvements at Aston, 
it looks so like settling; if I come I will set 
6re to it. I will never believe the B * * s 
and the C * * s are dead, though I smelt 
them ; that sort of peoj^le always live to a 
good old age. 1 dare swear they are only 
gone to Ireland, and we shall soon hear 
they are bishops. 

The Erse fragments have been published 
five weeks ago in Scotland, though I had 
them not (by a mistake) till the other day. 
As you tell me new tnings do not reach you 
soon at Aston, I enclose what L can ; the 
rest shall follow, when you tell me whether 

* Had Mr. Pope disregarded the sarcasms of the many writers 
that endeavoured to eclipse his poetical fame as much as Mr. 
Gray here appears to have done, the world would not have been 
possessed of a Dunciad ; but it would have been impit ssed with a 
more amiable idea of its author's temper It is for thf sake of 
showing how Mi'. Gray felt on such occasions , that I publish this 
letter. 



grab's letters. 71 

you liave not got the pamphlet already. I 
send the two to Mr. Wood which i had be- 
fore, because he has not th:: affectation lj not 
admiring.^ I have another from Mr. Mac- 
pherson, which he has not printed; it is 
mere description, but excellent too in its 
kind. If you are good and will learn to ad- 
mire, I will transcribe and send it. 

As to their authenticity, I have made m<iny 
inquiries, and have lately procured a leuer 
from Mr. David Hume, (the historian) which 
is m)re satisfictory than any thing I have 
yet met with on that subject. He says, 

"Certain it is that these poems are in 
every body's mouth in the Hii^hhinds, have 
been handed down from f.tther to son, and 
are of an age beyond all memory and tradition. 
Adam Smith, the celebrated professor in 
Glasgow, told me, that the piper of the Ar- 
gyleshire militia repeated to him all those 
which Mr. Macpherson had translated, and 
many more of equal beauty. Major Mackay 
(lord Rae's brother) told me that he remem- 
bers them perfectly well; as likewise did 
the laird of Macfarline, (the greatest anti- 

* It was rather a want of credulity than admiration that Mi-. 
Gray should h;\ve laid to rny charge. I suspected that, whether 
tHfe fragnrieiits were geuuiue or not, iliey were by no means literally 
translatefl. 



GRAY S 1'ETTER.S. 



quarian we have in this country) and who 
insists strongly on the historical truth, as 
well as the poetical beauty of these produc- 
tions. I could add the laird and lady Mac- 
leod, with many more, that live in different 
parts of the Highlands, very remote from 
each other, and could only be acquainted 
with what had become (in a manner) na- 
tional works. There is a country surgeon 
in Lochaber, who has by heart the entire 
epic poem mentioned by Mr. Macpherson 
in his preface; and, as he is old, is perhaps 
the only person living that knows it all, and 
has never committed it to writing, we are in 
the more haste to recover a monument, 
which will certainly be regarded as a curi- 
osity in the republic of letters: we have 
therefore ^et about a subscription of a guinea 
or two guineas apiece, in order to enable 
Mr. Macpherson to undertake a mission into 
the Highlands to recover this poem, and 
other fragments of antiquity." He adds too, 
that the names of Fingal, Ossian, Oscar, &:c. 
are stili given in the Highlands to large mas- 
tiffs, as we give to ours the names of Cassar, 
Pompey, Hector, &c. 



gray's letters. 73 

CXI. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Loudon, 1762. 

I REJOICE to tind that you not only grow re- 
conciled to your northern scene, but disco- 
ver beauties round you that once were 
deformities: I am persuaded the whole mat- 
ter is to have always something going for- 
ward. Happy they that can create a ros6- 
tree, or erect a honey-suckle; that can watch 
the brood of a hen, or see a fleet of their 
own ducklings launch into the water: It is 
with a sentiment of envy I speak it, who 
never shall have even a thatched roof of my 
own, nor gather a strawberry but in Covent- 
Garden. I will not, hovvever, believe in the 
vocality of Old Park till next summer, when 
perhaps I may trust to my own ears. 

The Nouvelle Heloise cruelly disappoint- 
ed me, but it has its partisans, amongst which 
are Mason and Mr. Hurd; for me, I admire 
nothing but Fingal* (I conclude you have 

* In a letter to another ft-iend. informing him that he had sent 
Fingal down to b iin, he says, " For my pait, I will stiok to roy cre- 
dulity, and if I am cheated,, tliink it is woi-se for him [the transla- 
tor] th«n for me. The ep'c poem is foolishly so called, yet there 



74 gray's letters. 

seen it, if not, Stonhewer can lend it you); 
yet I remain still in doubt about the authen- 
ticity of these poems, though inclining rather 
to believe them genuine in spite of the 
world; whether they are the inventions of 
antiquity, or of a modern Scotchman, either 
case is to me alike unaccountable; je m'y 
pcrd. 

I send you a Swedish and English calen- 
dar;* the first column is by Berger, a dis- 
ciple of LinnaBus; the second by Mr. Stilling- 
fleet; the third (very imperfect indeed) by 
me. You are to observe, as you tend your 
plantations and take your walks, how the 
spring advances in the north, and whether 
Old- Park most resembles Upsal or Stratton. 
The latter has on on6 side a barren black 
heath, on the other a light sandy loam, all 
the country about it is a dead flat; you see 
it is necessary you should know the situation 
(I do not mean any retlection upon any 
body's place); and this is the description 

ii a sort of plan and unity in it very strange for a barbarous age ; 
yet what I more admire are some of the detached pieces -the rest 
I leave to the discussion of antiquarians and lustorians : yet my 
curiosit) is much interested in their decision." No man surely 
ever took more pains with himself to believe any thing than Mr. 
Gray seems to have done on tliis occasion. 
* See Stillingfleet's Tracts, p. 261. 



gray's letters. 76 

Jrir. Stiilingfleet gives of iiis friend Mr. Mar- 
sh •• ii's seat, to which he retires in the sum- 
mer, and hot.mizes. I have lately made an 
acquiint.iace with thi% philosopher, who lives 
in a garret here in the .vinter, that he may 
support some near rel itions who depend 
upon him; he is always employed, conse- 
quently (according to my old maxim) aUvays 
happy, always cheerful, and seems to me a 
very worthy honest man; his present scheme 
is to send some persons properly qualified to 
reside a year or two in Attica, to make 
themselves acquainted with the climate, pro- 
ductions, and natural history of the country, 
that we may understand Aristotle, Theo- 
phrastus, &;c. who have been heathen Greek 
to us for so many ages; and this he has got 
proposed to lord Bute, no unlikely pe»-son 
to put it into execution, as he is himself a 
botanist. 



CXII. 

TO MR. MASON. 

London, Jan, 22, 176!. 

I CANNOT pity you; au contruire, 1 wish 1 
had been at Aston, when I was foolish 



76 gray's letters. 

enough to go through the six volumes of the 
Noiivelle Uklcise. All 1 can say for myself 
is, that I was confined for three weeks at 
home by a severe cold, and had nothing bet- 
ter to do: There is no one event in it that 
might not happen any day of the week (se- 
parately taken) in i?ny private ftmiily; yet 
these events are so put together, that tlie 
series of them is more absurd and more im- 
probable than Amadis de Gaul. The dra- 
matis personam (as the author says) are all 
of them good characters; 1 am sorry to hear 
it: for had they been all hanged at the end 
of the third volume, no body (I believe) 
would have cared. In short, I went on and 
on, in hopes of finding some wonderful de- 
nouement that would set all right, and bring 
something like nature and interest out of ab- 
surdity and insipidity: no such thing, it 
grows worse and vi^orse; and (if it be Rous- 
seau's, which is not doubted) is the strongest 
instance I ever saw, that a very extraordina- 
ry man may entirely jristake his own talents. 
By the motto and preface, it appears to be 
his own story, or something similar to it.* 

* If it be eonsiJered that Mr. Gray always prefewed expression 
and sentiment to tJie arrangement of a story, it may seem some- 
what extraoi-dinary that the many striking beauties of these kinds, 
with which this singular work abounds, wem not excepttd from s» 



GRAY*S LETTERS. 77 

The opera-house is crowded this year 
like any ordinary theatre. Elisi is finer than 
any thing that has been here in your memo- 
ry: yet, as I suspect, has been finer than he 
is: he appears to be near fort}^ a little pot- 
bellied and thick shouldered, otherwise no 
bad figure; his action proper, and not un- 
graceful. We have heard nothing*;, since I 
remember operas, but eternal passa<2;es, di- 
visions, 'and flights of execution: of these he 
has absolutely none; whether merely from 
judgment, or a little from age, I will not 
affirm; his point is expression, and to that 
all the graces and ornaments he inserts 
(which are few and short) are evidently 
directed: he goes higher (they say) than 
Farinelli; but then this celestial note you 
do not hear above once in a whole opera; 
and he fills from this altitude at once to the 
mellowest, softest, strongest tones (about the 
middle of his compass) tliat can be heard. 
The Mattel, I assure you, is much improved 
by his example, and by her great success 
this winter; but then the burlettas, and the 
Faganioa, I have not been so pleased with 

general a censure ; for my own part [to use a phrase of his ownj 
" they strike me blind" to all the defects vThjtb ke has here enaise- 
rat«d. 



78 

any thing these many years: she too is fat, 
and above ("orty, yet handsome withal, and 
has a face that speaks the hinguage of all 
nations: she has not the invention, the fire, 
and the variety of action that the Spiletta 
had; yet she is light, agile, ever in motion, 
and above all graceful; but then her voice. 

her ear, her taste in singing: Good God 

as Mr. Richardson the painter says. Pray 
ask lord * * ; for I think 1 have seen him 
there once or twice, as mucli jjleased as I 
was. 



CXIII. 

TO MR. MASON. 

August 1761. 

Be assured your York canon never will die; 
so the better the thing is in value, the worse 
for you.* The true way to immortality is 
to get you nominated one's successor: age 
and diseases vanish at your name; fevers turn 
to radical heat, and fistulas to issues: it is a 

• This was written at a time, when, by the favour of Dr Foun« 
tajTie. dean of Yoi'k, i expected to be laade a residentiaiy in his 
cathedral. 



gray's letters. 79 

jutlgment that waits on your insatiable ava- 
rice. You could not let the poor old man 
die at his ease, when he was about it; and 
all his flimily (I suppose) are cursing you 
tor it. 

I wrote to lord * * * * on his recovery; 
and he answers me very cheerfully, as if his 
illness had been but slight, and the pleurisy 
were no more than a hole in one's stocking. 
He got it (he says) not by scampering, rack- 
etting, and riding post, as I had ^supposed; 
but by going with ladies to Vauxhail. He 
is the picture (and pray so tell him, if you 
see him) of an old alderman that I knew, 
who, after living forty years on the fat of the 
land, (not milk and honey, but arrack punch 
and venison) and losing his great toe with a 
mortification, said to the last, that he owed 
it to two grapes, which he eat one day after 
diriner. He felt them lie cold at his stomach 
the minute they were down. 

Mr, Montagu (as 1 guess, at your instiga- 
tion) has earnestly desired me to write some 
lines to be put on a monument, which he 
means to erect at Bellisle.* It is a task I 
do not love, knowing sir William Williams 
so slightly as I did: but he is so friendly a 

* See Poems. 



80 gray's letters. 

person, an<^ his afiliction seemed to me so 
re;jl, that I coiiid not refuse Linj. J have 
sent him the following verses, which I nei- 
ther hke myself, nor will he, I doubt: how- 
ever, I have showed him that I wished to 
ohhge him. Tell me your real opinion. 



CXiV. 

TO MR. WALFOLE. 

Sunday, Februaiy 28, 176S. 

I RETURN yon my best thanks i'or the copy 
of your book,* which you ^.ent me, and have 
not at all lessened my opinion of it since I 
read it in print, though the press has in 
general a bad effect on the comrdexion of 
one's works. The engravings look, as you 
say, better than 1 had expected, yet not alto- 
gether so well as I could wish. 1 rejoice in 
the good dispositions of our court, and in the 
propriety of their application to you: the 
work is a thing so much to be wished; has 
so near a connection with the turn of your 
studies Hnd of your curiosity; and might find 
such ample njaterials among your hoards and 
in your head; that it will be a sin if you let 

• The Anecdotes of Painting. B. 



gray's letters. 81 

it drop and conie to nothing, or worse than 
nothing, for want of your assistance. The 
liistorical part should be in the nrianner of 
Henault, a mere abridgement, a series of 
ikcts selected with judgment, that may serve 
as a clew to lead the mind along in the midst 
of those ruins and scattered monuments of art, 
that time has spared. This would be suffi- 
cient, and better than Montfaucvn's more dif- 
fuse narrative. Such a work (I have heard) 
Mr. Burke is now employed about, which 
though not intended for this purpose, might 
be applied perhaps to this use. Then jit the 
end of each reign should come a disserta- 
tion explanatory of the plates, and pointing 
out the turn of thought, the customs, cere- 
monials, arms, dresses, luxury, and private 
iife, with the improvement or decline of the 
arts during that period. This you must do 
yourself, beside taking upon you the super- 
intendance, direction, and choice of materi- 
als. As to the expense, that must be the 
king's own entirely, and he must give the 
book to foreign ministers and people of note; 
for it is obvious no private man can under- 
take such a thing without a subscription, and 
no gentleman will care for such an expedi- 
ent; and a gentleman it should be, because 
he must have easy access to archives, cabi- 
voL. IV, 22 



82 gray's letters. 

nets, and collections of all sorts. I protest 
I tlo not think it impossible but they may 
give into such a scheme: they approve the 
design, they wish to encourage the arts and 
to be magnificent, and they have no Ver- 
sailles or Herculaneum. 

I hope to see you toward theend of March. 
If you bestow a line on me, pray tell me 
whether the baronne de la Peyriere is gone 
to her castle of Viry; and whether Fingal 
be discovered or shrewdly suspected to be a 
forgery. Adieu! 



cxv. 



TO DR. WHARTaN. 

Cambridge, Dec. 4,1762. 

I FEEi, very ungrateful every day that 1 
continue silent; and yet now that 1 take my 
pen in hand I have only time to tell you, 
that of all the places which I saw in my re- 
turn from you, Hardwicke pleased me the 
most.* One would think that Mary, queen 
of Scots, was but just walked down into the 
park with her guard for half an hour; her 

* A seat of the Duke of Devoasbire, iu Derbyshire. 



gray's letters. 83 

gallery, her room of audience, her anti- 
chamber, with the very canopies, chair of 
state, footstool, lit de rcpos, oratory, carpets, 
and hangings, just as she left them: a little 
tattered indeed, but the more venerable; and 
all preserved with religious care, and pa- 
pered up in winter. 

When I arrived in London, I found pro- 
fessor Turner* had been dead above a fort- 
night; and being cockered and spirited up 
by some friends (though it was rather the 
latest) I got my name suggested to lord Bute. 
You may easily imagine who undertook it, 
and indeed he did it with zeal.j 1 received 
my answer very soon, which was what you 
may easily imagine, but joined with great 
protessions of his desire to serve me on fu- 
ture occasions, and many more fine words 
that 1 pass over, not out of modesty, but for 
another reason: so you see I have made my 
fortune like sir Francis Wronghead. This 
nothing is a profound secret, and no one 
here suspects it even now. To-day I hear 

* Professor of modem languages in the unirersity of Cambridgie. 

t This person was the late sir Henry Erskine. As this was tb* 
only application Mr. Gray ever made to ministry, I thought it 
necessary to insert his o^^^l account of it. The place in questioft 
was given to the tutor of sir James Lowtber. 



o4 GRAY S LETTERS. ' 

Mr. E. Delavai* has got it, but we are not 
yet certain; next to myself, I wished for 
him. 

You see we have made a peace. I shall 
be silent about it, because if I say any thing 
anti-ministerial, you will tell me you know 
the reason; and if I approve it, you will 
think I have my expectations still. All I 
know is, that the duke of Newcastle and 
lord Hardwick both say it is an excellent 
peace, and only Mr. Pitt calls it inglorious 
and insidious. 



CXVI. 

TO MR. MASON, 

February 8, 1763.. 

DocTissiME domine, anne tibi arrident com- 
plimenta ?t If so, I hope your vanity is 

* Fellow of Pembroke-Hall, and of the Royal Society. 

t William Taylor Howe, esq. of Stoudou Place, ueai- Chipping- 
Ougar, in Essex, an honorary fellow of Pembroke-Hall, was now 
on his travels in Italy, where he hid made an acquaintance with 
the celebrated count Alajarotti, and had recommended to him 'Mx. 
Gray's poems and my dramas. After the perusal he received a 
jetter from the count, written in that style of superlative panegyric, 
peculiar to Italians. A copy of thij letter Mr. Howe had just now 



gray's letters. 85 

tickled with the verghe (Voro of count Alga- 
rotti, and the intended translation of Sig«*. 
Agostino Paradisi: for my part, I am ravished 
(for 1 too have my share). Are you upon, 
the road to see all these wonders, and snuff 
up the incense of Pisa; or has Mr. Brown 
abated your ardour by sending you the ori- 
ginals? I am waiting with impatience for 
your coming. 

I am obliged to you for your drawing and 
very learned dissertation annexed.* You 

sent to «ur common friend ISIi-. BrowTi, then presUlent of the 
college ; and also another of the count's, addressed to Sigr. Paradisi, 
a Tuscan poet ; m which, after explaining the arguments of my 
two dramatic poems, he advises him to translate them ; but 
piincipally Caractacus.— This anecdote not only explains the above 
paragraph, but the subsequent letter. The Latin, at the beginning 
of the letter, alludes to a similar expression which a fellow of a 
oollege had made use of to a foreigner who dined in th« college 
hall. Having occasion to ask him if he would eat any cabbage to 
bis boiled beef, he said " anne tibi arrident herba ?" 

* This relates to the ruin of a small Gothic chapel near the 
north-west end of the cathedral at York, not noticed by Dvakc 
in his Eboracum. When Mr. Gray made nie a viit at that place 
the summer before, he was much struck with the beautiful 
proportion of the windows in it, which induced me to get Mr. 
Paul Sandby to make a drawing of it ; and also to endeavour, iji 
a letter to Mr. Gray to explain to what foundation it belonged. 
As his answer contains some excellent general ivmarks on Gothic 
building, I thought proper to publish it, though the particula. 
reatter which occasionetl them was not of any great consequence 



86 gray's letters. 

have made out your point with a ^reat de- 
gree of probability, (for though the nimis 
adhcesit might startle one, yet the sale of the 
tithes and chapel to Webster seems to set 
all right again) and I do believe the building 
in question was the chapel of St. Sepulchre. 
But then, that the ruin now stranding was 
the individual chapel, as erected by arch- 
bishop Roger, I can by no means think. I 
found myself merely on the style and taste 
of architecture. The vaults under the choir 
are still in being, and were undoubted!}^ 
built by this very archbishop: they are truly 
Saxon; only that the arches are pointed, 
though very obtusely. It is the south tran- 
sept (not the north) that is the oldest part of 
the minster now above ground: it is said to 
have been begun by Geffery Plantagenet, 
who died about thirty years after Roger, and 
left it unfinished. His successor, Walter 
Grey, completed it; so we do not exactly 
know to which of these two prelates we ar« 
to ascribe any certain part of it. Grey lived 
a long time, and was archbishop from 1216 
to 1255 (39 Henry HI.); and in this reign 
it was, that the beauty of the Gothic archi- 
tecture began to appear. The chapter- 
house is in all probability his work, and (I 
should suppose) built in his latter ^ays; 



87 

whereas, what he did of the south tran- 
sept might be performed soon after his ac 
cession. It is in the second order of this 
building, that the round arches appear, in- 
cluding a row of pointed ones, (which you 
mention, and which I also observed) similar 
to those in St. Sepulchre's chapel, though 
far inferior in the proportions and neatness 
of workmanship. The same thing is re- 
peated in the north transept; but this is only 
an imitation of the other, done for the sake 
of regularity; for this part of the building 
is no older than archbishop Romaine, who 
came to the see in 1285, and died 1295. 

All the buildings of Henry the Second's 
time (under whom Roger lived and died, 
1 185) are of a clumsy and heav}^ proportion, 
with a few rude and awkward ornaments: 
and this style continues to the beginning of 
Henry the Third's reign, though with a little 
improvement^ as in the nave of Fountain's 
abbey, &:c. then all at once come in the tall 
j)icked arches, the light clustered columns, 
the capitals of curling foliage, the fretted 
tabernacles and vaultings, and a profusion 
of statues, &,c. that constitute the good Gothic 
style; together with decreasing and flying 
buttresses, and pinnacles, on the outside. 
Nor must you conclude any thing from Ro- 



<55 GRAY 3 LETTERS. 

ger's own tomb, which has (I remember) a 
wide surbased arch with scalloped orna- 
roents, &:c. for this can be no older th-an the 
nave it!*eir, which was built by archbishop 
Melton, after the year 1315, one hundred 
and thirty years after Roger's death. 

i have compared Helvetius and Elfrida, as 
yoa desired me,* and tind thirteen parallel 

* As the plagiarism, to which Mr. Gray here alludes, is but 
iittle known, and, 1 think, for its singularity, is somewhat curious, 
1 shall beg the reader's patience while I dilate upon it ; though I 
am aware it will stretch this note to an unconscionable length. 
M. Helvetius, in the third chapter of his third essay de 
VEsprit, which tifats of the extent of memory, means to 
prove that this faculty, in the extreme, is not necessary to con- 
stitute a great genius. For this purpose he examines whether the 
greatness of the very different talents of Locke and of Milton 
ought to be considered as the effect of their possessmg this taleat in 
an extraordinary degree. He then proceeds as follows : " As the 
last example of the small extent of memory necessary to a fine 
imagination, I shall give in a note tlie translation of a piece of 
English poetry ; which, with the preceding, will, I believe, prove 
t o those who would decompose the works of illustrious men, that 
a great genius does not necessarily suppose a great memory." I 
now set down that note with references to Elfi-ida underneath it, 
and I choose to Ji'ive it in the English translation printed in 1759, 
that the parallel passages may be the more obvious at first sight. 
■ ' A young virgin, awaked and ' guided by love, goes before the 
appearance of Aurora to a valley, where she waits for the coming 
of her lover, who, at the rising of the sun, is to offer a sacrifice to 
the gods. Htr soul , in the soft situation in which she is placed 
by the hopes of approaching hap>)iness, indulges, while wa!tin|^ 



gray's letters. 89 

passages; five of which, at leiist, are so 
direct and close as to leave no shadow of a 

for him, the pleasure of contemplating the beauties of nature, and 
the rising of that luminarj- that was to bring the object of her ten- 
derness." She expresses herself thus : 

" Ah-eady the sun gilds the top of those antique oaks, and the 
waves of those falling torrents that roar among the rocks shine 
with his beams ; already I perceive the summit of those shaggy 
mountains whence arises the vaults which, half concealed in the 
air, offer a formidable retreat to the solitary who there retires (1). 
Night folds up her veil Ye wanton fires, that mislead the wan- 
dering (traveller, retire (3) to the quagmire* and marshy fens ; 
and thou sun, lord •f the heavens, who fillest the aii" with reviving 
heat, who sowest with dewy pearls the flowers of these meadows, 
and givest colours to the varied beauties ef nature, receive ray first 
homage (3), and hasten thy course. Thy appearance proclaims 

Cl) How nobly does this venerable wood, 

Gilt with the glories of the orient sun, 

Embosom yon fair mansion .' 

On the shaggy mound, 

Wkere tumbling torrents roar around ; 

AVhere pendent mountains o'er your head 

Stretch a formidable shade — 

Where luU'd in pious peace the hermit lies. 
C2) Away, ye goblins all, 

Wont the hew ilder'd traveller to daunt— 
13) Hail to thy living light 

Ambrosial Mom— 

That bids each dewy-spangled floweret rise. 

And dart around its vermeil dies- 
Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye, , 

Where, throned in artless majesty, 

The cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustie shriBfe.— 



00 gray's letters. 

doubt, and therefore confirm all the rest. 
It is a phaenomenon that you will be in the 

that of my lover. Freed from the pieus cares that detain him 
still at the foot of the altars, love wiH soon bring him to nnm (4). 
Let all around me partake of my joy. Let all bless the rising 
luminary by which we are enlightened. Ye flowers, that enclose 
in your bosoins the odours that cool night condenses theiv, open 
your buds, and exhale in the air your balmy vapours. I know not 
whether the delightful intoxication that possesses my soul, does 
not embellish whatever I behold ; but the rivulet, that in pleading 
meanders winds along this valley, enchants me with his mui-murs. 
Zephyrus caresses me with his breath ; the fragrant plants, pressed 
under my feet, waft to my senses their perfume. Oh ! if Felicity 
sometimes condescends to Aisit the abodes of mortals, to these 
placts, doubtless, she retires (5). But with what secret trouble am 

1 agitated ? Already in-patience mingles its poison with the sweet- 
ness of my expectation. This valley has already lost all its beau- 
ties. Is Joy then so fleeting ? It is as easy to snatch it from us, 
as for the light down of these plants to be blown away by the 
breath of the Zephyrs (6). In vain have I recourse to flattering 

(4) 'Twill not be long, ere his unbending mind 
Shall lose in sweet oblivion evaT^ care 
Among the embowering shades that veil Elfrida. 

(5) The soft air 
Salutes me with most cool and temperate breath, 
And, as I tread, the flower-besprinkled lawn 
Sends up a gale of fragrance. I should guess, 
If e'er content deign'd visit mortil clime, 
This was her place of dearest residence. 

(6) For safety now sits wavering on your love. 
Like the light down upon the thistle's beard, 
Which every breeze may part. 



gray's letters. 91 

right to inform yourself about, and which I 
long to understand. Another phainomenon 

hope. Each moment increases my disturbance. He will come no 
more. "Who keeps him at a distance from me ? What duty more 
lacred than that of 'aiming the Inquietudes of love ? But what do 
I sav? Fly, jealous suspicions, injurious to his fidelity, (7) and 
formed to extinguish my tenderness. If jealousy grows by the side 
of love, it will stifle 't if not puUed up by the roots ; it is the 
ivy which, by a verdant chf>in. embraces, but dries up the trunk 
which serves for its support (8). I know my lover too well to 
doubt of his tenderness. He, lUiC me, has, far from the pomps of 
courts, sought the tranquil asylum of the fields. Touched by the 
simplicitj of my heart, and by my beauty, my sensual rivals call 
him in vain to their arms. Shall he be seduced by the advances of 
coquetry, which, on the cheek of the young maid, tarnishes the 
snow of innocence and the carnation of modesty, and daubs it with 
the whiteness of art and the paint of effrontery ? (9) What do I 
say ? his contempt for her is perhaps only a snare for me. Can I 
be ignorant of the partiality of men, and the arts they employ to 
seduce us ? Nourished in a contempt for our sex, it is not us, it is 

(7) Ayaunt ! ye vain delusive feasr. 
(8) See Elfrida. 
Ah see ! how round yon branching elm the ivy. 
Clasps its green chain, and poisons what supports it. 
Not less injurious to the shoots of love 
!• sickly jealousy. 

(9)— To guard 
Your beauties from the Hast of courtly gales. 
The ci-imson blush of virgin modesty, 
The delicate soft tints of innocence. 
There all fly ofl^ and leave no boast behi^d 
But well-rangtd, faded features. 



S2 gray's letters. 

is, that I read it without finding it out: all I 
remember is, that 1 thought it not at all 

tkeir pleasures that they love. Cruel as they are, they hare placeil 
in the rank of the virtues the barbarous fury of revenge, and the 
mad love of their country ; but never have they reckoned fidelity 
among the virtues. Without remorse they abuse innocence, and 
often their vanity contemplates our griefs with delight. But no ; 
fly far from me, ye odious thoughts, my lover will come ! A thou, 
sand times have I experienced it : As soon as I perceive him/ ray 
agitated mind is calm, and I often forget the too just cause I 
hare for complaint ; for near him I can only know happiness (10). 
Yet if he is treacherous to me ; if, in the very moment when my 
love excuses him, he consummates the crime of infidelity in another 
ijosom, may all nature take up arms in revenge ! may he perish ! 
What do I say ? Ye elements, be deaf to my cries ! Thou earth, 
open not thy profoimd abyss .' let the monster walk the time pre- 
scribed him on thy splendid surface, let him still commit new 
«rimes, and still cause the tears of the too credulous maids to 
flow : and if heaven avenges them and punishes him. may it at 
least be at the prayer of some other unfortunate woman (11)." 
Here ends this odd instance of plagiarism. When M. Helve- 
tiu8 was in England, a year or two after I had made the disco- 

(1.0)— My truant heart 
Forgets each lesson that Resentment taught, 
And in thy sight knows only to be happy. 

In the French it is more literal, "Pres de lui je ne seals qu'etre 
heureuse." 

(11) Till then, ye elements, rest ; and thou, firm earth, 
Ope not thy yav/ning jaws ; but let this monster 
Stalk his due time on thine affrighted surface : • 
Yes, let him still go on, still execute 
His savage purposes and daily make 
More widoM's weep, as I do. 



gray's letters. 23 

English, and did not nauch like it; and the 
reason is plain, for the lyric flights and cho- 
ral flowers suited not in the least with the 
circumstances or character of the speaker, 
as he had contrived it. 



CXVII. 

TO MH. BROWN.* 

February 17, 1763. 

You will make my best acknowledgments to 
Mr. How; who, not content to rank me in 
the number of his friends, is so polite as to 
make excuses for having done me that hon- 
our. 

very of it, I took my measures (as Mr. Gray advised me) to learn 
bow he cauie by it ; ai»d accordingly requested two noblemen, tc 
whom he was introduced, to ask him some questions concerning 
it ; but I could gain no satisfactory answer. I d»iiot, however, 
by any means, suppose that the x>€rson who cooked up the dis- 
jointed parts of my di-ama into this strange fricasse, was M Hel- 
vetius himself; I rather imagine (as I did fr«m the first) that he 
Was imposed upon by someyoiuig English traveller who contrived 
this expedient in order to pass with him for a poet. The great 
philosopher, it is true, has in this note been proved to be the 
receiver of stden goods; but out of respect to bis numerous 
fashionable disciples, botli abroad and at home, whose credit 
might suffer with that of their master, I acquit bin) of what 
would only be held criminal at the Old Bailey, that he veceiTed 
these goods knowing t/iem to be stolen- 

* Since of Pembroke-Hall. 



94 aRAV's LETTERS. 

I was not born so far from the sun, as to 
be ignorant of count Algarotti's name and 
reputation; nor am I so far advanced in 
3'ears, or in philosophy, as not to feel the 
warsnth of his approbation. The odes in 
question, as their motto shows, were meant 
to be vocal to the intelligent alone. How ie.w 
they were in my own country, Mr. How can 
testify; and yet my ambition was terminated 
by that small circle. I have good reason 
to be proud, if my voire has reached the ear 
and apprehension of a stranger, distinguish- 
ed as one of the best judges in Europe. 

I am equally pleased with the just ap- 
plause he bestows on Mr. Mason; and parti- 
cularly on his Caractacus, which is the work 
of a man: whereas Elfrida is only that of a 
boy, a promising boy indeed, and of no com- 
mon genius: yet this is the popular perfor- 
mance, and the other little known in compa- 
rison. 

Neither count Algarotti nor Mr. How (I 
believe) have heard of Ossian, the son of 
Fingal. If Mr. How were not upon the 
wing, and on his way homewards, I would 
send it to him in Italy. He would there see 
that imagination dwelt many hundred years 
ago, in all her pomp, on the cold and barren 
mountains of Scotland. The truth (1 be 



fray's letters. 95 

lieve) is, that, without any respect of cli- 
mates, she reigns in all nascent societies of 
men, where the necessities of life force eve- 
ry one to think and act much for himself.* 



CXVIII. 



COUNT ALGAROTTI TO MR. GRAY. 

Pisa,24 Aprile, 1763. 

SoNO stato lungo tempo in dubbio se un 
dilettante quale io sono, dovea mandare 
alcune sue coserelle a un professore quale 
e V. S. Illus^, a un arbitro di ogni poetica 
eleganza Ne ci voiea meno che Tautorita 
del valorissimo Sigr. How per persuadermi 
a cio fare. V. S. 111^ accolga queste mie 
coserelle con quella medesima bonta con 
cui ha voluto accogliere quella lettera che 

• Cue is led to think from this parag:raph that the scepticism, 
which Mr. Gray had expressed before, concerning these works of 
Ossian, was now entirly removed. I know no way of accounting 
for this (as he had certaiidy received no stronger evidence of their 
authenticity) but from the turn of his studies at the time. He had 
of late much busied himself in antiquities, and consequently had 
imbibed too much of the spirit of a professed antiquarian; now 
we know, from a thousand instances, that no set of men are more 
willingly duped than these, especially by any thing that comes to 
them under the fascinating form of a new discovery. 



96 gray's letters. 

dice pur poco delle tante cose, che fanno 
sentire alle anirne armoniche di ammirabili 
suoi versi. lo saro per quanto io porro, 
Preeco laudum ttiarmn^ e quella mia leltera 
si stampera in un nuovo Giornale, che si fa 
m Venezia, intitolato la Minerva, perche 
tappia la Italia che la Inghilterra, ricca di 
un Omero* di uno Archimede,! di un De- 
mostene,! non manca del suo Pindaro. Al 
Sig'* How le non saprei dire quanti ob- 
blighi io abbia, ma si maggiore e certarnente 
quello di avermi presentato alia sua Musa 
e di avermi procurato la occasione di po- 
terla assicurare della perfetta ed altissima 
stima, con cui io ho I'honore di sottescri- 
vermi, 

De V. S. Illusm^ 
Devotis. &LC. 

Algarottt. 



CXIX. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Pembix)ke-HaU, August 5, 1763, 

You may well wonder at my long taciturnity. 
I wonder too, and know not what cause to 

* Milton. t Newton. 4. IVIi-. Pitt. 



gray's letters. 57 

assign ; for it is certain I think of you daily. 
I believe it is owing to the nothingness of 
my history ; for except six weeks that I 
passed in town to-^ards the end of the spring, 
and a little jaunt to Epsom and Box-hill, I 
have been here time out of mind, in a 
place where no events grow, though we 
preserve those of former days, by way of 
Hortiis siccus, in our libraries. 

I doubt you have not yet read Rousseau's 
Emile. Every body that has children should 
read it more than once : tor though it 
abounds with his usual glorious absurdity, 
though his general scheme of education be 
an impracticable chimera, yet there are a, 
thousand lights struck out, a thousand im- 
portant truths better expressed than ever 
they were before, that may be of service to 
the wisest men. Particularly, I think he 
has observed children with more attention, 
and knows their meaning and the working 
of their little passions better than any other 
writer. * As to his religious discussions, 
which have alarmed the world, and engaged 
their thoughts more than any other part of 
his book, I set them all at naught, and wish 
they had been omitted.-^ 

* That I may put together the rest of Mr. Gray's sentiments 
ooncerning this singular writer, I insert here an extract from a 
VOL. IV. ■ 23 



9% gray's letters. 



CXX. 



TO MR. HOW. 

Cambridge, Sept. 10, 1763. 

1 OUGHT long since to have made you my 
acknowledgments for the obliging testimo- 
nies of your esteem that you have conferred 
upon me ; but count Algarotti's books* did 
not come to my hands till the end of July, 
and since that time I have been prevented by 

letter of a later date, wvitten to myself. " I have not read the Phi. 
losophic Dictionary. I can now stay with gi-eat patience for any 
thing that comes from Voltaire. They tell me it is fripperj-, and blas- 
pheniy, and wit. I could have forgiven mjsell if 1 had not read 
Rousseau's l<ettres de la Montagne Always excepiting the Con- 
tract Social, it is the dullest performance he ever j)ublished It is 
a weak attempt to separate the miracles froin the morality of the 
Gospel. The latter (he would have you think) he believes was 
sent from God ; and the Ibrmer he very explicitly takes for an im- 
posture : this is in oi-der to prove the cruelty and injustice of the 
state of Geneva in burning his Emile. The latter part of his 
book is to show the abuses that have crept into the constitution <«f 
his country, -which point (if you are concerned about it) he makes 
out very well ; and bis intention in this is plainly to raise a tumult 
in the city, and to be revenged on the Petit Conseil, who condemn- 
ed his writhigs to the flames." 

* Three small treatises on painting, the opera, and the French 
academy for painters in Italy : they have been since collected in 
the Leghorn edition of his works. ^ 



gray's letters. 99 

illness from doing any of my duties. I have 
re.id them more than once, with increasing 
satisfaction ; and should wish mankind had 
eyes to descry the genuine sources of their 
own pleasures, and judgment to know the 
extent that nature has prescribed to them : 
if this were the case, it would be their 
interest to appoint count Algarotti their 
" arbiter elegantiarum." He is highly civil 
to our nation ; but there is one point in 
which he does not do us justice: I am the 
moFe solicitous about it, because it relates 
to the only taste we can call our own ; 
the only proof of our original talent in 
matters of pleasure, I mean our skill in 
gardening, or rather laying out grounds ; 
and this is no small honour to us, since 
neither Italy nor France have ever had the 
least notion of it, nor yet do at all com- 
prehend it when they see it. That the 
Chinese have this beautiful art in high per- 
fection, seems very probable from the 
Jesuits' Letters, and more from Chambers's 
little discourse, published some years ago ;* 
but it is very certain Ave copied nothing 

• The author has since enlarged, and published it under the 
title of a Dissertation on Oriental Gardening; in which he has put 
it oiK of all doubt, that the Chinese and English tastes are totally 
dissimilar. 



100 gray's letters. 

from them, nor had any thing but nature for 
our modeL It is not forty years since the 
art was born among us;"^ and it is sure that 
there was nothing in Europe like it ; and as 
sure, we then had no information on this 
head from China at aiLj 

I shall rejoice to see you in England, 
and talk over these and many other mat- 
ters with you at leisure. Do not despair 
of your health, because you have not 
found all the effects you had promised 
yourself from a finer climate. I h«ve 
known people who have experienced the 
same thing, and yet, at their return, have 
lost all their complaints as by miracle. 

P.S. I have answered count Algarotti's 
letter, and his to Mr. Mason I conveyed 
to him ; but whether he has received his 
books, I have not yet heard. 

Mr. How, on receiving the foregoing let- 
ter, communicated the objection which it 
contained to the count ; who, admitting the 

* See Mr. Walpole's history of this art at the end of the last 
volume of his Anecdotes of Painters. 

1 1 question whether this }ye not saying too much. Sir William 
Temple's account of the Chinese gardens was published some 
years before this period ; and it is probable thai might have pi"0- 
motfd our endeavours, not indeed uf imitating them, but of imi- 
tating (what ke said was their archetype) Nature; 



gray's letters. 101 

justness of it, altered the passage, as ap- 
pears from the following extract of the 
answer which he sent to that gentleman: 

" Mi spiace solamente che quella critica 
concernente i Giardini Inglesi non la abbia 
fatta a medesimo ; quasi egli dovesse cre- 
dermi piu amico della ana opinione che 
della verita. Ecco, come ho cangiato qual 
luogo. Dopo le parole nel lesser la Javola 
di un povma. " Simili ai Giardini della 
Cina sono quelli che piantano gl' Inglesi 
dietro al medesimo modello, della natiira." 
Qnanto ella ha di vago, e di vario, boschetti, 
collinette, acque vive, praterie con dei t«5m- 
pietti, degli obelischi, ed anche di belle 
rovine che spuntano qua e la, si trova 
quivi reunito dal gusto dei Kent, e dei 
Chambers,* che hanno di tanto sorpassato 
il le Nautre, tenuto gia il maestro dell' 
Architettura, diro cosi, de Giardini. Dalle 
Ville d'lnghilterra e sbandita la simmetria 
Francese, i piu bei siti pajono naturali, il 
culto e misto col negletto, e il disordine 
che vi regna e Teflfetto dell' arte la meglio 
ordinata." 

It is seldom that an author of a reputa- 
tion so established (as Mr. How truly re- 

• As he had written on the subject, this mistake was natural 
enough in count Algaroitiv 



102 gray's letters. 

marked, when he sent this extract to Mr. 
Gray) so easily, readily, and explicitly gives 
up his own opinion to that of another, or 
even to conviction itself; nor perhaps would 
count Algarotti have done so, had he not 
been thoroughly apprised to whose cor- 
rection he submitted. 



CXXI. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Sunday, December 30, 1764. 

1 HAVE received the Castle of Otranto, and 
return you my thanks for it It engages 
our attention iiere,*" makes some of us cry 
a little, and all in general afraid to go to bed 
o'nights. We take it for a translation, and 
should believe it to be a true story, if it 
were not for St. Nicholas. 

When your pen was in your hand you 
might have been a little more communica- 
tive : for thou2;h disposed enough to be- 
lieve the opposition rather consumptive, I 
am entirely ignorant of all the symptoms. 
Your canonical book I have been reading 

*At Cambridge. 



(sray's letters. 103 

with {^reat satisf.iction. He speaketh as one 
having authority. If Englishmen have any 
feehn^i; left, inothinks they must feel now; 
and if the ministry have any f' eling (whom 
nobody will suspect of insensibility) they 
must cut oiT the author's ears, for it is in 
all the forms a most wicked libel, is the 
old man and the lawyer put on, or is it 
real? or has some real lanyer furnished a 
good part of the materials, and another per- 
son employed them? This 1 guess; for there 
is an uncouthness of diction in the begin- 
ning, which is not supported throughout — 
though it now and then occurs again, as if 
the writer was weary of supporting the 
character he had assumed, when the sub- 
ject had warmed hi«m beyond dissimulation.* 
Rousseau's letters! 1 am reading heavily, 
heavily! He jistities himself, till he con- 
vinces me that he deserved to be burnt, at 
least that his book did. I am not got through 
him, and you never will. VoUaire i detest, 

• Mr. Gray may probably allude to a pamphlet, called " A letter 
concerning libels, warrants, seizure of papers, and security for the 
peace or beiiaviour, with a view to some late procttdings, and the 
defence of them by the majority."'— Supposed to have been writ- 
ten by William Graves, esq. a master in chanoery, uader the 
inspection of the late lord Camden. B. 

t The Lettres de la Montagnc. 



1Q4 gray's letters. 

and have not seen his book: I shall in good 
time. You surprise me, wlien you talk of 
going* in February. Pray, does all ttie mi- 
nority go too? I hope you haVe a reason. 
Desperare de republica is a deadly sin in 
politics. 

Adieu! I will not take my leave of yotj; 
for (you perceive) this letter means to be^ 
another, when you can spare a little. 



CXXli. 

TO MR. PALGRAVE.t 

Mareh, 1765. 

My instructions, of which you are so desi- 
j'ous, are two-fold: the first part relates to 
what is past, and that will be rather dif- 
fuse: the second, to what is to come; and 
ihat we shall treat more succinctly, and with 
ull due brevity. 

First, t^'hen you come to Paris,- you will 
not fiil to visit the cloister of the Char- 
treuse, where Le Sueur (in the history. of 

* To Palis. 

t ISIr. Gray's ooiTes]x»ndent v as how makiiig liie tour of France 
3.nd Kiilv. 



gray's letters. 105 

St. Bruno) has almost equalled Raphael, 
Then your Gothic inclinations will naturally 
lead you to the Sainte Chapelle built by St. 
Louis: in the treasury is preserved one of 
the noblest gems of the Augustan age. 
When you take a trip into the country, 
there is a fine old chapel at Vincennes with 
admirable painted windows; and at Fontain- 
bleau, the remains of Francis the First's 
magnificence might give you some pleasure. 
In your way to Lyons you will take notice 
of the view over the Saone, from about 
Tournus and Macon. Fail not to walk a 
few miles along the banks of the Rhone, 
down the river. I would certainly make a 
little journey to the Grand Chartreuse, up 
the mou!itaijis: at your return out of Italy 
this, will have little effect. At Turin you 
will visit the Capuchins' convent just with- 
out the city, and the Superga at no great 
distance, for the sake of the views. At 
Genoa observe the Terreno of the palace 
Brignoli, as a model of an apartment ele- 
gantly disposed in a hot climate. At Parma 
vou will adore the great Madonna and St. 
Jerom, once at St. Antonio Abbate, but now 
(1 am told) in the Ducal Palace. In the 
Madonna della Steccata observe the Moses 
breaking the Tables, a chiaroscuro figure of 



106 gray's letters. 

the Parme^giano at too great a height, and 
ill lighted, but immense. At the Capuchins, 
the great pieta of Annib. Caracci; in the 
villa Ducale, the room painted by Carlo 
Cignani; and the last works of Agosliiio 
Caracci at Modena.* I know not what re- 

• When our author was himself in Italy, he studied with much 
attention the di iferent mann rs of the old masters. I find a paper 
written at the time, in which he has set down several t:'.l)iects 
proper for painting, which he had never seen eneciitid, and has 
affixed the names of different masters to each pece, to show which 
of their pe;icils he thought would h ,ve l>een most proper to treat 
it. As I doiil)t not but this paper will be an acceptable present to 
the Reynoldses and Wests of the age, 1 shall here insert it. 

" An Altar-Piece— Guido. 

The top, a Heaven ; in the middle at a distance, the Padre 
Eterno indistinctly seen, and lost, as it were, in g:lory. On either 
hand. Angels of all degrees in attitudes of adoration and wonder. 
A little lower, and next the eye. supported on the wii-gs of Se- 
raphs, Christ (the principal figure) with an air of calm and serene 
majesty, his hand extended, as commanding the elemeiits to tlieir 
sereral places : near him an A;igel of superior rank biaring the 
golden comp'isses (that Milton describes) ; lieneath, the Chaos, 
like a dark and turbulent ocean, only illuminated by the Spirit^ 
who is brooding over it. 

A small picture.— Correggio. 

Eve newly created, admiring her own shadow in the lake. 

The famous Venus of this master, late in the possession of 
Sic William Hamilton, proves how judiciously Mr. Gray fixed 
upon his pencil for the execution of this charmiug subject. 



gray's letters^ 107 

mains now, the flower of the collection is 
gone to Dresden. Bulogna is too vast a 

A nother . — Domen ich i no . 

Medea in a pensive posture, with i-evenge and maternal affee- 
tion striving in her visage ; her two children at play, sponing 
with one a^iother before her. On one side a bust of Jason, to 
which they bear some resemblance. 

A Statue.— Michael Angelo. 

Agave in the moine-. t she returns to her senses : the head of h«' 
son, fallen on the grouuil from h r hand. 
Vide Ovid Met. li .. lii. 1 731, ire. M. 

A picture.— Salvator Rosa. 

^neas and the Sibyl sacrificing to Pluto by torch-light in the 
wood, the assistants in a fright. The day beginning lo bitak so as 
dimly to show tlie mouth of the caverp. 

Sigismonda with the heart of Gniscardo before her. I hare 
seen a small print on tliis subject, where the expression is admi. 
table, said to be graved from a picture of Correggio. 

Afterwards, when he had seen the original in the posses- 
sion of the late Sir Luke Schaub, he always expre-sed the 
highest admiration of it ; though we see, by his here giving it 
to Salvator Rosa, he thought the subject too horiid to be treated 
by Correggio ; and indeed I btlieve it is agreed that the capita* 
pictuie in question is not of his hand. 

Anotlier. — Albanu, or the Parmeggiano. 

Iphigenia asleep by the fouiitain-side, her maids about her .; 
Cyrooii gazing and laughing. 

Thij subject has bee.^ ofttn treated ; o:ice indeed v. ry curiously 
by Sir Peter Lely, in the way of portrait, wheu his sacred Majesty 



108 gray's letters. 

subject for me to treat; the palaces and 
churches are open; you have nothing to do 
but to see them all. In coming down the 
Apennine you will see (if the sun shines) 
all Tuscany before you. And so I have 
brought you to Florence, where to be sure 
there is nothing worth seeing. Secondly, 
1. Vide, quodcunque videndum est. 

Charles the Second represented Cjinon, and the duchesi of Cleve- 
land and Mrs, Eleanor Gwin (in as indecent attitudes as liis roy- 
al taste could prescribe) were Iphigenia and her attendants. 

Another.— Domenichino, or the Caracci. 

Electra with the urn, in which she imagined were her brother's 
ashes, lanieuting over them ; Orestes smothering his concern. 

Another .—Correggio. 

Ithuriel and Zephon entering the bower of Adam and Eve ; they 
sleeping. The, light to proceed from the Angels. 

Another. — Nicholas Poussin. 

Alcestis dying ; her children weeping, and hanging upon her robe ; 
the youngest of them, a little boy, crying too, but appearing rather 
to do so, because the others are afflicted, than from any sense of the 
reason of their sorrow : her right arm should be round this, her left 
extended towards the vest, as recommending them to licr loitl'* care ; 
he fainting, and supported by the attendants. 

Salvator Rosa. 

Hannibal passing the Alps ; the mountaineers rolling down rocks 
upon his army ; elephants turablingdown the precipices. 



grave's letters. 109 

2. Q,uodcunque ego non vidi, id tu vide. 

3. Q,aodcunque videris, scribe et describe; 

memoriae ne tide. 

4. Scribendo nil admirare; et cum pictor 

non sis, verbis omnia depinge. 

5. Tritam viatornm compitam calca, et cum 

poteris desere. 

6. Erne, quodcunque emendam est; I do not 

mean pictures, medals, gems, draw- 
ings, &.C. only; but clothes, stockings, 
shoes, handkerchiefs, little moveables; 
every thing you may want all your 
life long: but have a care of the 
custom-house. 
Pray present my most respectful compli- 
ments to Mr. Weddell.* 1 conclude when 
the winter is over, and you have seen 
Rome and Naples, you will strike out of 
the beaten path of English travellers, and 

Another. — Domeniehino. 

Arria giving Claudius's order to Psetus, and stabbing herself at 
the same time. 

N. Poussin, or Le Sueur. 

Virginias murdering his daughter ; Appjus, at a distance, start- 
ing up from his ti-ibunal ; the people amazed, but few of them 
seeiug the action itself." 

* \yilllaua Weddell, esq. of Newby in Yorkshire, 



110 GRAY S LETTERS. 

see a little of the country, throw your- 
selves into the bosom of the Apennine, 
survey the horrid lake of Amsanctus (look 
in Chiver's Italy), catch the breezes on 
the coast of Taranto and Salerno, expatiate 
to the very toe of the continent, perhaps 
strike over the Faro of Messina, and hav- 
ing measured the gigantic columns of Gir- 
genti, and the tremendous caverns of Syra- 
cusa, refresh yourselves amidst the fragrant 
vale of Euna. Oh! che bel riposo! Addio. 



CXXIII. 

TO MR. BEATTIE. 

Glames-Castle, Sept. 8, 1765. 

A LITTLE journey I have been niaking to 
Arbroath has been the cause that I did not 
answer your very obliging letter so soon as 
I ought to have done. A man of merit, that 
honours me with his esteem, and has the 
frankness to tell me po, doubtless can need 
no excuses: his apology is made, and we 
are already acquainted, however distant from 
each other. 

I fear I cannot (as 1 would wish) do my- 
self the pleasure of waiting on you at Aber- 



gray's letters. Ill 

deen, being under an engagement to go to- 
moiTovv to Taymoiitb, and, if the weather 
will allow it, to the Blair of Athol: this will 
take up four or five days, and at my return 
the approach of winter will scarce permit 
me to think of any farther expeditions north- 
wards. My stay here will, however, be a 
fortnight or three weeks longer; and if in 
that time any business or invitation should 
call you this way, lord Strathmore gives me 
commission to say, he shall be extremely 
glad to see you at Glames; and doubt not it 
will be a particular satisfaction to me to 
receive and thank you in person for the 
favourable sentiments you have entertained 
of me, and the civilities with which you have 
honoured me. 



CXXIV. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Glames-Cartle, Sept. 14. 1765. 

I DEFERRED writing to you till I tiad seen a 
little more of this country than yourself 
had seen; and now being just returned from 
an excursion, which I and major Lyon have 
been making into the Highlands, 1 sit down 



112 gray's letters. 

to give you an account of it. But first I 
must return to my journey hither, on which 
I shall be very short; partly because you 
know the way as far as Edinburgh, and part- 
ly that there was not a great deal worth re- 
marking. The first night we passed at 
Tweedmouth (77 miles); the next at Edin- 
burgh (53 miles); where lord Strathmore 
left the major and me, to go to Lennox-Love, 
(lord Blantyre's) where his aunt lives: so 
that afternoon and all next day I had leisure 
to visit the castle, Holyrood-house, Heriot's 
hospital, Arthur's seat, kc. and am not sorry 
to have seen tbat most picturesque (at a dis- 
tance), and nastiest (when near) of all capital 
cities. I supped with Dr. Robertson and 
other literati, and the next morning lord 
Strathmore came for us. We crossed at the 
Queen's Ferry in a four-oared yawl without 
a sail, and were tossed about rather more 
than I should wisii to hazard again; lay at 
Perth, a large Scotch town with much wood 
about it, on the banks of the Tay, a very 
noble river; next morning ferried over it, 
and came by dinner-time to Glames; being 
(from Edinburgh) 67 miles,' which makes in 
all (from Helton) 197 miles. The castle* 

* This is said to be the rery castle iu which Duncan was mur- 
dered by Macbetb. 



GRAY S LETTERS. llo 

stands in Strathmore (i. e. the Great Valley) 
which winds about from Stonehaven on the 
east coast of Kincardineshire, obliquely, as 
f?tr as Stirling, near 100 miles in length, and 
from seven to ten miles in breadth, cultivat- 
ed every where to the foot of the hills, on 
either hand, with oats or here, a species of 
barley, except where the soil is mere peat- 
earth, (black as a coal) or barren sand cov- 
ered only with broom and heath, or a short 
grass tit for sheep. Here and there appear, 
just above ground, the huts of the inhabi- 
tants, which they call towns, built of, and 
covered with, turf; and among them, at 
great distances, the gentlemen's houses, with 
enclosures, and a fiew trees round them. 

Amidst these the castle of Glames distin- 
guishes itself, the middle part of it rising 
proudly out of what seems a great and thick 
wood of tall trees, with a cluster of hanging 
towers on the top. You descend to it gra- 
dually from the south, through a double and 
triple avenue of Scotch firs 60 or 70 feet 
high, under three gateways. This approach 
is a full mile long ; and when you have 
passed the second gate, tlie tirs change to 
limes, and another oblique avenue goes off 
on either hand towards the offices. These, 
as well as all the enclosures that surround 
VOL. IV. 24 



114 gray's letters. 

the house, are bordered with three or four 
ranks of sycamores, ashes, and white poplars 
of the noblest height, and from 70 to 100 
years old. Other alleys there are, that go 
off at right angles with the long one; small 
groves, a;id walled gardens, of earl Patrick's 
planting, full of broad-leaved elms, oaks, 
birch, black cherry-trees, laburnums, &c. 
all of great stature and size, which have not 
till this v>^eek begun to show the least sense 
of morning frosts. The third gate delivers 
you into a court with a broad pavement, 
and grassplats adorned with statues of the 
four Stuart kings, bordered with old silver 
iirs and yew-trees, alternately, and opening 
with an iron palisade on either side to two 
square old fashioned parterres surrounded 
by stone fruit-walls. The house, from the 
height of it, the greatness of its mass, the 
many towers atop, and the spread of its 
wings, has really a very singular and strik- 
ing appearance, like nothing I ever saw. 
You will comprehend something of its shape 
from the plan of the second floor, which I 
enclose. The wings are about 50 feet high; 
the body (which is the old castle, with walls 
10 feet thick) is near 100. From the leads 
I see to the south of me (just at the end of 
the avenue) the little town of Glames, the 



gray's letters. 115 

houses built of stone, and slated, with a neat 
kirk and small square tower (a rarity in this 
region.) Just beyond it rises a beautiful 
round hill, and another ridge of a longer 
forna adjacent to it, both covered with woods 
of tall tir. Beyond them, peep over the 
black hills of Sid-law, over which winds the 
road to Dundee. To the north, within 
about seven miles of me, begin to rise the 
Grampians, hill above hill, on whose tops 
three weeks ago I could plainly see some 
traces of the snow that fell in May last. To 
the east, winds a way to the Strath, such as 
I have before described it, among the hills, 
which sink lower and lower as they ap- 
proach the sea. To the west, the same 
valley (not plain, but broken, unequal 
ground) runs on for above 20 miles in view: 
there I see the crags above Dunkeld; there 
Beni-Gloe and Beni-More rise above the 
clouds; and there is that She-khallian, that 
spires into a cone above them all, and lies 
at least 45 miles (in a direct line) from this 
place. 

Lord Strathmore, who is the greatest far- 
mer in this neighbourhood, is from break of 
day to dark night among his husbandmen 
and labourers: he has near 2000 acres of 
land in his own hands, and is at present em- 



116 gray's letters. 

ployed in building a low wall of four miles 
long, and in widening the bed of the little 
river Deane, which runs to south and south- 
east of the house, from about twenty to fifty 
feet wide, both to prevent inundations, and 
to drain the lake of Forfar. This work will 
be two years more in completing, and must 
be three miles in length. All the Highlan- 
ders that can be got are employed in it; 
many of them know no English, and 1 hear 
them singing Erse songs all day long. The 
price of labour is eight-pence a day; but to 
such as will join together, and engage to per- 
form a certain portion in a limited time, two 
shillings. 

I must say that all his labours seem to 
prosper; and my lord has casually found in 
digging such quantities of shell-marl, as not 
only fertilize his own grounds, but are dis- 
posed of at a good price to all his neighbours. 
In his nurseries are thousands of oaks, 
beech, larches, horse-chesnuts, spruce-firs, 
&c. thick as they can stand, and whose only 
fault is, that they are grown tall and vigorous 
before he has determined where to plant 
them out; the most advantageous spot we 
have for beauty lies west of the house, 
where (when the stone-walls of the meadows 
are taken away) the grounds, naturally un- 



gray's letters. 117 

equal, vvili have a very park-like appear- 
ance: they are already fall of trees, which 
need only thinning here and there to break 
the regularity of their trout-stream which 
joins the river Deane hard by. Pursuing 
the course of this brook upwards, you come 
to a narrow sequestered valley sheltered 
from all winds, through which it runs mur- 
muring among great stones; on one hand the 
ground gently rises into a hill, on the other 
are the rocky banks of the rivulet almost 
perpendicular, yet covered with sycfimore, 
ash, and fir, that (though it seems to have 
no place or soil to grow in) yet has risen to 
a good height, and forms a thick shade: you 
may continue along this gill, and passing by 
one end of the village and its church for 
half a mile, it leads to an opening between 
the two hills covered with fir-woods, that I 
mentioned above, through which the stream 
makes it way, and forms a cascade often or 
twelve feet over broken rocks. A very 
little art is necessary to make all this a 
beautiful scene. The weather, till the last 
week, has been in general very fine and 
warm; we have had no fires till now, and 
often have sat with the window^s open an 
hour after sun set: now and then a shower 
has come, and sometimes sudden gusts of 



118 gray's letters. 

wind descend from the mountains, that finish 
as suddenly as they arose; butto-day it blows 
a hurricane. Upon the whole, I have been 
exceeding lucky in my weather, and par- 
ticularly in my Highland expedition of five 
days. 

We set out then the 11th of September, 
and continuing along the Strath to the west, 
passed through Megill, (where is the tomb 
of Queen Wanders, that was riven to dethe hy 
stancd horses for nae gude that she did; so the 
women there told me, I assure you) through 
Cowper of Angus; over the river 11a; then 
over a wide and dismal heath, fit for an 
assembly of witches, till we came to a string 
of four small lakes in a valley, whose deep 
blue waters and green margin, with a gentle- 
man's house or two seated on them in little 
groves, contrasted with the black desert in 
vyhich they were enchased. The ground 
now grew unequal; the hills, more rocky, 
seemed to close in upon us, till the road 
came to the brow of a steep descent, and 
(the sun then setting) between two woods of 
oak w^e saw far below us the river Tay 
come sweeping along at the bottom of a pre- 
cipice, at least 150 feet deep, clear as glass, 
full to the brim, and very rapid in its course; 
it seemed to issue out of woods thick and 



gray's letters. 119 

tall, that rose on either hand, and were 
over-hung by broken rocky crags of vast 
height; above them, to the west, the tops 
of higher mountains appeared, on which the 
evening clouds reposed. Down by the side 
of the river, under the thickest shades, is 
seated the town of Dunkeld; in the midst of 
it stands a ruined cathedral, the towers and 
shell of the building still entire: a little be- 
yond it, a large house of the duke of Athol, 
with its offices and gardens, extends a mile 
beyond the town; and as his grounds were 
interrupted by the streets and roads, he has 
f^ung arches of communication across them, 
that add to the scenery of the place, which 
of itself is built of good white stone, and 
handsomely slated; so that no one would 
take it for a Scotch town till they come into 
it. Here we passed the night; if I told you 
how, you would bless yourself. 

Next day we set forward to Tay mouth, 
27 miles farther west ; the road winding 
through beautiful woods, with the Tay almost 
always in full vie'V to the right, being here 
from 3 to 400 feet over. The Strath-Tay, 
from a mile to three miles or more wide, 
covered with corn, and spotted with groups 
of people then in the midst of their har- 
vest ; on either hand a vast chain of rocky 



ISO GRAV'S LETTERS, 

mountains that changed their face and open- 
ed something- new every hundred yards, as 
the way turned, or th^ clouds passed: 
in short, altogether it was one of the most 
pleasing days I have passed these many 
years, and at every step I wished for you. 
At the close of day we came to Balloch^^ so 
the place was called ; hut now Tai/mctdh^ 
improperly enough ; for here it is that the 
liver issues out of Loch-Tay, a glorious 
lake 15 miles long and one mile and a half 
broad, surrounded with prodigious moun- 
tains ; there on its north-eastern brink, im- 
pending over it, is the vast hill of Lawers; 
10 the east is that enormous creature, She- 
lihallian (i. e. the maiden's pap) s])iring 
above the clouds: directly west, bej'ond the 
end of the lake, Bern-more ; the great moun- 
tain rises to a most awful height, and looks 
down on the tomb of Fingal. Lord Breadal- 
bane*9 policji/ (so they call here all such 
ground as is laid out for pleasure) takes in 
about 2000 acres, of which his house, offi- 
i^es, and a deer-park, about three miles 
round, occupy the plain or bottom, which 
is little above a mile in breadth; through it 
winds the Tay, which, by means of a bridge, 

* Mr. Pennant, in bis tour in Scotland, explains this woid " the 
Meutb of the Loch." 



6Ray's letters. 121 

I found here to be 156 feet over: his planta- 
tions and woods rise with the ground^ on 
either side the vale, to the very summit of 
the enormous crags that overhang it : along 
them, on the mountain's *ide, runs a terras 
a mile and a half long, that overlooks the 
course of the river. From several seats 
and temples perched on particular rocky 
eminences, you command the lake for many 
miles in length, which turns like some huge 
river, and loses itself among the mountains 
that surround it; at its eastern extremity, 
where the river issues out of it, on a penin- 
sula my lord has built a neat little town and 
church with a high square tower; and just 
before it lies a small round island in the 
lake, covered with trees, amongst which are 
the ruins of some little religious house. 

Trees, by the way, grow here to great 
size and beauty. I saw four old chesnuts 
i-n the road, as you enter the park, of vast 
bulk and height ; one beech tree I measur- 
ed that was 16 feet 7 inches in the girth, 
and, I guess, near 80 feet in height. The 
gardener presented us with peaches, necta- 
rines, and plumbs from the stone-walls of 
the kitchen-garden (for there are no brick 
nor hot walls); the peaches were good, the 
rest well tasted, but scarce ripe; we had 



I3ii2 GRAY S LETTERS. 

also goWen pippins from an espalier, not 
ripe, and a melon very well flavoured and 
fit to cut : of the house I have little to say ; 
it is a very good nobleman's house, hand- 
somely furnished and well kept, very com- 
fortable to inhabit, but not worth going far 
to see. Of the earl's taste I have not much 
more to say; it is one of those noble situa- 
tions that man cannot spoil: it is however 
certain, that he has built an inn and a town 
just where his principal walks should have 
been, and in the most wonderful spot of 
ground that perhaps belongs to him. In 
this inn however we lay ; and next day, re- 
turning down the river four miles, we pass- 
ed it over a fine bridge, built at the expense 
of the government, and continued our way 
to LogieRait, just below which, in a most 
charming scene, the Tummcl^ which is here 
the larger river of the two, falls into the 
Tay. We ferried over tlie Tummel iji 
order to get into Marshal Wade's road, 
which leads from Dunkeld to Inverness, and 
continued our way along it toward the north: 
the road is excellent, but dangerous enough 
in conscience; the river often running di- 
rectly under us at the bottom of a precipice 
200 feet deep, sometimes masked indeed by 
wood that finds means to crow where I could 



gray's letters„ 123 

not stand, but very often quite naked and 
without any defence: in such places we 
walked for miles together, partly for fear, 
and partly to admire the beauty of the coun- 
try, which the beauty of the weather set 
off to the greatest advantage: as evening 
came on, we approached the pass of Gilli- 
krankie, where, in the year 1745, the Hes- 
sians, with their prince at their head, stop- 
ped short, and refused to march a foot 
farther. 

restibuhim ante ipsum, prhnisque in fauci- 
hus Orel, stands the solitary mansion of Mr. 
Robertson, of Fascley; close by it rises a 
hill covered with o^k, with grotesque mas- 
ses of rock staring from among their trunks, 
like the sullen countenances ofFingal and 
all his family, frowning on the little mortals 
of modern days: from between this hill and 
the adjacent mountains, pent in a narrow 
channel, comes roaring out the river Tum- 
mel, and falls headlong down involved in 
white foam which rises into a mist all round 
it: but my paper is deficient, and I must 
say nothing of the pass itself, the black river 
Garry, the Blair of Athol, mount Beni-Gloe, 
my return by another road to Dunkeld, the 
Hermitage, the Slra-Bram, and the Rum- 
bling Brig; in short, since I saw the x^lps, I 



124 gray's letters. 

have seen nothing sublime till now. In 
about a week I shall set forward, by the 
Stirling road, on my return all alone. Pray 
for me till I see you, for I dread Edinburgh 
and the itch, and expect to find very little 
in my way worth the perils I am to endure. 



cxxv 



TO MR. BEATTIE. 

Glames Castle, Oct. 2. 3765. 

1 MUST beg you would present my most 
grateful acknowledgments to your society 
for the public mark of their esteem, which 
you say they are disposed to confer on me.* 
I embrace, with so deep and just a sense 
of their goodness, the substance of that 
honour they do me, that I hope it may plead 
my pardon with them if I do not accept the 
form. I have been, sir, for several years a 
member of the university of Cambridge, and 
formerly ^when I had some thoughts of the 
profession) took a bachelor of laws' degree 

* The Marischal College of Abeitken had desired to know 
whether it would he agi-eeable to ^Ir. Gray to receive from them 
the degree of doctor of laws. Mr. afterwards Dr. Beattie wrote to 
htm on the subject, and this is the answer. 



GRAY S LETTERS. 125 

there; since that time, though long qualified 
by my standing, 1 have always neglected to 
tinish my course, and claim my doctor's de- 
gree: judge, therefore, whether it will not 
look like a slight, and some sort of contempt, 
if i receive the same degree from a sister 
university. I certainly would avoid giving 
any offence to a set of men, among whom I 
have passed so many easy, and I may say, 
happy hours of my life; yet shall ever re- 
tain in my memory the obligations you have 
laid me under, and be proud of my connec- 
tion with the university of Aberdeen. 

It is a pleasure to me to find that you are 
not offended with the liberties I took when 
you were at Glames; you took me too lite- 
rally, if you thought I meant in the least to 
discourage you in your pursuit of poetry: all 
I intended to say was, that if either vanity 
(that is, a general and undistinguishing de- 
sire of applause), or interest, or ambition 
has any place in the breast of a poet, he 
stands a great chance in these our days of 
being severely disappointed; and yet, after 
all these passions are suppressed, there ma^' 
remain in the mind of one, " ingenti percul- 
sus amore,'' (and such I take you to be) 
incitements of a better sort, strong enough 
to make him write verse all his life, both 



126 gray's letters. 

for his own pleasure and that of all pos- 
terity. 

1 am sorry for the trouble you have had 
to gratify my curiosity and love of supersti- 
tion;* yet I heartily thank you. On Mon- 
day, sir, I set forward on my way to Eng- 
land; Vv^here if I can be of any little nse to 
you, or should ever have the good for- 
tune to see you, it will be a .particular 
satisfaction to me. Lord Strathniore^and the 
family here desire me to make their compli- 
ments to you. 

P. S. Remember Dryden, and be blind 
to all his faults. t 

* Mr Gray, when in Scotland, had been very inquisitive after 
the popular superstitions of the country ; his correspondent sent 
him two books on this subject, foolish ones indeed, as might be ex* 
pected, but the best that could be had ; a History of Second-sight, 
and a History of Witches. 

t Mr. Beattie, it seems, in their late inteniew, had expressed 
himself with less admiration of Dryden than Mr. Gray thought 
his due. He told him in reply, '' that if there was any excel- 
lence in his own numbers, he had learned it wholly from that 
great poet ; and pressed him with gi-eat earnestness to study him, 
as his choice of words and Tersification were singularly happy aj>rl 
lisinnonious." 



gray's letters. 127 



CXXVI. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Cambridge, December 13, 176S. 

I AM very much obliged to you. for the de- 
tail you enter into on the subject of your 
own health: in this you cannot be too cir- 
cumstantial for me, who had received no 
account of you, but at second-hand — such as, 
that you were dangerously ill, and there- 
fore went to France; thnt you meant to try 
a better climate, and therefore stayed at 
Paris: that you had relapsed, and were con- 
fined to your bed, and extremely in vogue, 
and supped in the best company, and were 
at all public diversions. I rejoice to find 
(improbable as it seemed) that all the won- 
derful part of this is strictly true, and that 
the serious part has been a little exaggerat- 
ed. This latter I conclude not so much 
from your own account of yourself, as from 
the spirits in which I see you write; and 
long may they continue to support you! I 
mean in a reasonable degree of elevation: 
but if (take notice) they are so volatile, so 
' flippant, as to suggest any of those doctrines 
of health, which you preach with all the 



128 gray's letters. 

zeal of a French atheist; at least, it' they 
really do influence your practice; I utterly 
renounce them and all their works. They 
are evil spiritfi^ and will lead you to destruc- 
tion. — You have long built your hopgs on 
temperance, you say, and hardiness. On 
the first point we are agreed. The second 
has totall}* disappointed you, and therefore 
you will persist in it; by all means. But 
then be sure to persist too in being young, 
in stopping the course of time, and making 
the shadow return back upon your sun-dial. 
If you find this not so easy, acquiesce with a 
good grace in my anilities^ put on your un- 
der-stockings of yarn or woolen, even in the 
nighttime. Don't provoke me! or 1 shall 
order you two night-caps (vvhich by the way 
would do your eyes good), and put a little 
of any French lioueur into your water: 
they are nothing but brandy and sugar, and 
among their various flavours some of them 
may surely be palatable enough. The pain 
in your feet / can bear; but I shudder at the 
sickness in your stomach, and the weakness, 
that still continues. 1 conjure you, as you 
love yourself; 1 conjure you by Strawberry, 
not to trifle with these edge-tools. There 
is no cure for the gout, when in the stomach, 
but to throw it into the limbs. There is no 



GRAY'S LETTERS. 129 

I'viiief for the gout in the limbs, but in gentle 
warnmth and gradual perspiration. 

I was much entertained with 3 our account 
ot oar neighbours. As an Englishman and 
all Antigallican, I rejoice at their dullness 
and their nastiness: though I fear we shall 
come to imitate them in both. Their athe- 
ism is a little too much, too shocking to re- 
joice at. I have been long sick at it in their 
authors, and hated them for it: but 1 pit^' 
their poor innocent people of fijshion. They 
were bad enough, wiien they believed every 
thing! 

I have searched where you directed me; 
which I could not do sooner, as I was at 
London when I received j^our letter, and 
could not easily find her grace's works. 
Here they abound in every library. The 
print you ask after is the frontispiece to 
Natur£*s pictures drawn by Fancy^s pencil. 
But lest there should be any mistake, I must 
tell you, the flimily are not at dinner, but 
sitting round a rousing fire and telling stories. 
The room is just such a one as we lived in 
at Rheims: 1 mean as to the glazing and 
ceiling. The chimney is supported by 
Caryatides: over the mantel piece the arms 
of the faniily. The duke and duchess are 
crowned with laurel A servant stands be* 

VOL. iv. 25 



130 gray's letters. 

hind him, holding a hat and feather. Art- 
other is shutting a window. Diepenbecke 
delin. et (I think) S. Clouwe sculps. It is 
a very pretty and curious print, and I thank 
you for the sight of it. If it ever was a 
picture, what a picture to have! 

I must tell you, that upon cleaning an old 
picture here at St. John's Lodge, which I 
always took for a Holbein; on a ring, which 
the figure wears, they have found H. H. 
it has been always called B. V. Fisher; but 
is plainly a layman, and probably sir Anthony 
Denny, who was a benefactor to the col- 
lege. 

What is come of your Sevigne-curiosity? 
I should be glad of a line now and then, 
when you have leisure. I wish you well, 
and am ever 

Yours. 



CXXVII. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Pembroke-Hall, March 5, 1766. 

I AM amazed at myself when 1 think 1 have 
never wrote to you; to be sure it is the sin 
of witchcraft, or something worse. Had I 



gray's letters. 131 

been married, like Mason, some excuse 
might be made for it; who (for the first time 
since that great event) has just thought fit to 
tell me that he never passed so happy a 
winter as the last, and this in spite of his 
anxieties, which he says might even make a 
part of his happiness; for his wife is by no 
means in health; she has a constant cough: 
yet he is assured her lungs are not affected, 
and that it is nothing of the consumptive 
kind. As to me, I have been neither happy 
nor miserable; but in a gentle stupefaction 
of mind, and very tolerable health of body 
hitherto. If they last, I shall not much 
complain. The accounts one has lately had 
from ail parts, make me suppose you buried 
in the snow, like the old queen of Denmark. 
— As soon as you are dug out, I shall rejoice 
to hear your voice from the battlements of 
Old Park, 

Every thing is politics. There are no 
literary productions worth your notice, at 
least of our country. — The French have 
finished their great Encyclopedia in 17 
volumes; but there are many flims}^ articles 
very hastily treated, and great incorrectness 
of the press. There are now 13 volumes 
of Buffon's Natural History; and he is not 
come to the monkies yet, who are a nume^' 



13;^ okay's letters. 

rous people. The Life of Petrarch has 
entertained me; it is not tvell written, but 
very curious, and laid together from his 
own letters, and the original writings of the 
fourteenth century; so that he takes in 
much of the history of those obscure times, 
and the characters of many remarkable per- 
sons. There are t»vo volumes quarto; and 
another, unpublished yet, will complete it. 

Mr. Walpole writes me now and then a 
lon^ 9nd lively letter from Paris; to which 
place he went last year Avith the gout upon 
him, sometimes in his limbs, often in his 
stomach and head. He has got somehow 
well, (not by means of the climate, one would 
think) goes to all public places, sees all 
the best company,'' and is veiry much in 
fashion. He says he sunk like queen Elea- 
nor at Charing-Cross, and has risen again 
at Paris. He returns in April. I saw the 
lady you inquire after, when I was last in 
London, and a prodigious fine one she is. 
She had a strong suspicion of rouge on her 
cheeks, a cage of foreign birds and a piping 
bullincii at her elbow; two little dogs on a 
cushion in her lap, and a cockatoo on her 
shoulder; they were all exceeding glad to 
see me, and 1 theai. 



gray's letters. 133 

CXXVIII. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

Peinbrcke-Hall, Aug. 25, 1766. 

Whatever my pen may do, I am siire my 
thoughts expatiate no where oftener, or 
with more pleasure, than to Old Park. I 
hope you have made my peace with the 
angry little lady. It is certain, wiiether her 
name were in my letter or not, she was as 
present to my memory as the rest of the 
whole family; and 1 desire you would pre- 
sent her with two kisses in my name, and 
one a-piece to all the others;. for I shi.ll 
take the liberty to kiss them all, (great and 
small) as you are to be my proxy.. 

In spite of the rain, which 1 think conti- 
nued, with very short intervals, till the 
beginning of this month, and quite etlhced 
the summer from the year, I made a ghifko 
pass May and June not disagreeably in Kent. 
— I was surprised at the beauty of the road 
to Canterbury, which (I know not why) 
had not struck me before. The whole 
country is a rich and well-cultivated i-arden; 
orchards, cherry-grounds, hcp-gai dens, in- 
termixed with corn and frequent villages; 



134 - GRAV'S LETTERS. 

gentle risings covered with wood, and every 
where the Thames and Medway breaking 
in upon the landscape with all their naviga- 
tion. It was indeed owing to the bad 
weather that the whole scene was dressed 
in that tender emerald green, which one 
usually sees only for a fortnight in the 
opening of the spring; and this continued 
till I left the country. My residence was 
eight miles east of CanterlDury, in a little 
quiet valley on the skirts of BarhamDown.* 
In these parts the whole soil is chalk, and 
whenever it holds up, in half an hour it is 
dry enough to walk out. I took the oppor- 
tunity of three or four days' tine weather to 
go into the isle of Thanet; saw Margate, 
(which is Bartholomew fair by the sea-side) 
Ramsgate, and other places there; and so 
came by Sandwich, Deal, Dover, Folkstone, 
and Hithe, back again. The coast is not 
like Hartlepool; there are no rocks, but 
only chalky cliffs of no great height till you 
come to Dover; there indeed the}^ are no- 
ble and picturesque, and the opposite coasts 
of France begin to bound your view, which 

* At Denton, where his friend the Rev. William Robinson, bro- 
tluT lo Matthew Robiuson, esq. late membei- for Canterbury, then 
rejiide*!. 



was left before to range unlimited by any 
thing but the horizon; yet it is by no means 
a shipless sea, but every where peopled with 
white sails, and vessels of all sizes in mo- 
tion: and take notice, (except in the isle, 
which is all corn -fields, and has very little 
enclosure) there are in all places hedge- 
rows, and tall trees even within a few yards 
of the beach. Particularly, Hiihe stands 
on an eminence covered with wood. I shall 
confess we had fires at night (ay, and at day 
too) several times in June; but do not go 
and take advantage in the north at this, for 
it was the most untoward year that ever I re- 
member. 

Have you read the New Bath Guide? It 
is the only thing in fashion, and is a new and 
original kind of humour. Miss Prue's con- 
version, I doubt, you will paste down, as a 
certain Yorkshire baronet did before he car- 
ried it to his daughters: yet I remember you 
all read Crazy Tales without pasting. Buf- 
foti's first collection of monkies is come out, 
(it makes the 14th volume) something, but 
not much to my edification; for he is pretty 
well acquainted with their persons, but not 
with their manners. 

My compliments to Mrs. Wharton and all 
your family; I will not name them, lest 1 
should affront anv body. 



136 gray's letters. 

CXXIX. 

TO MP.. NICHOLLS. 

It is long since that I heard you were gone in 
haste into Yorkshire on account oi* your 
mother's illness, and tlie same letter inform- 
ed me that she was recovered, otherwise I 
had then wrote to you only to beg you 
would take care of her, and to inform you 
that I had discovered a thing very little 
known, which is, that in one's whole life 
one can never have any more than a single 
mother. You may think this is obvious, and 
(what you call) a trite observation. You 
are a green gosling! I was at the same age 
(very near) as wise as you, and yet 1 never 
discovered this (with full evidence and con- 
viction 1 mean) till it was too late. It is 
thirteen years ago, and seems but as yester- 
<!ay, and every day I live it sinks deeper 
into my heart. ^' Many a corollary could I 

• He seldom mentioned his mother without a sigh. After his 
death her gowns arsd wearing apparel were found in a trunk in 
his apartments just as she had left them ; it seemed as if he 
could never take the resolution to open it, in oixler to distribute 
them to his female relations, to whom, by his will, he bequeath- 
ed thciD. 



gray's letters. 137 

draw from this axiom for j^our use, (not for 
my own) but I will leave you the merit of 
doing it for yourself. Pray tell me ho'.v 
your health is: I conclude it perfect, as I 
hear you offered yourself as a guide to Mr. 
Palgrave into the Sierra-Morena of York- 
shire. For me, 1 passed the end of May 
and all June in Kent, not disagreeably. 
In the west part of it, from ev^ery emi- 
nence, the eye catches some long reach of 
the Thames or Medway, with all their ship- 
ping: in the east, the sea brenks in upon 
you, and mixes its white transient sails and 
glittering blue expanse with the deeper and 
brighter greens of the woods and corn. 
This sentence is so fine I am quite ashamed; 
but no matter! You must translate it into 
prose. Palgrave, if he heard it, v/ould 
cover his face with his pudding sleeve. I 
do not tell you of the great and small beasts, 
and creeping things innumerable, that I met 
with, because you do not suspect that this 
vv'orld is inhabited by any thing but men 
and women, and clergy, and such tvv^o legged 
cattle. Now I am here again very discon- 
solate, and all alone, for Mr. Brown is gone, 
and the cares of this world are coming 
thick upon me: you, I hope, are better off, 
riding and walking in the woods of Studley.. 



138 gray's letters. 

&c. &c. I must not wish for you here; be- 
sides I am going to town at Michaelmas, by 
no means for amusement. 



cxxx. 

TO MR. MASON. 

March 28, 1767. 

I BREAK in upon you at a moment^ when we 
least of all are permitted to disturb our 
friends, only to say, that you are daily and 
hourly present to my thoughts. If the worst* 
be not yet past, you will neglect and pardon 
me: but if the Itist struggle be over; if the 
poor object of your^ong anxieties be no long- 
er sensible to your kindness, or to her 
own sufferings, allow me (at least in idea, for 
what could I do, were I present, more than 
this?) to sit by you in silence, and pity from 
my heart, not her, who is at rest, but you, 
who lose her. May He, who made us, the 

* As this little billet (which I received at the Hot-Wells at Bris- 
tol) then breathed, and still seems to breathe, the veiy voice of 
friendship in its tenderest and most pathetic note, I cannot refrain 
from publishing it in this place I oj>ened it almost at the pre- 
cise moment when it would necessarily be the most affecting. 



oray's letters. 139 

iiaster of our pleasures and of our pains, 
preserve and support you! Adieu. 

1 have4ong understood how little you had 
to hope. 



CXXXI. 

TO MR, BEATTIE. 

Old Park, near Darlingten, Diiriiam, 
August 13, 1767. 

I RECEIVED from Mr. Williamson that very 
obliging mark you were pleased to give me 
of your remembrance. Had I not enter- 
tained some slight hopes of revisiting Scot- 
land this summer, and consequently of see- 
ing you at Aberdeen, I had sooner acknow- 
ledged, by letter, the favour you have done 
me. Those hopes are now at an end; but I 
do not therefore despair of seeing again a 
country that has given me so much pleasure; 
nor of telling you, in person, how much I 
esteem you and (as you choose to call them) 
your amusements: the specimen of them, 
which you v«'ere so good as to send me, I 
think excellent; the sentiments are such as 
a melanchol}'^ imagination naturally suggests 
in solitude and silence, and that (though 



140 gray's letters. 

light and business may suspend or banish 
them at times) return with but so mjjch the 
greater force upon a feehng heart: the dic- 
tion is elegant and unconstrained; not loaded 
with epithets and figures, nor flagging into 
prose; the versilication is ea?y and harmoni- 
ous. My only objection is '^ * * 

You see, sir, I take the liberty you in 
dulged me in, when I first saw you; and 
therefore I make no excuses for it, but de- 
sire you would take your revenge on me in 
kind. 

I have read over (but too hastily) Mr. 
Ferguson's book. There are uncommon 
strains of eloquence in it: and I was sur- 
prised to find not one single idiom of his 
country (I think) in the whole work. He 
has not the fiiult you mention:* his applica- 

* To explain this, I mast take the liherty to transcribe a pai-ap 
S;raph from Mr Beattie"s letter, dated March 30, to which the 
above is an answer : " \ professor at Edinburgh has published an 
Essay on the History of Civil Society, but I have not seen it It 
is a fault common to almost all our Scotch authors, that they are 
too metaphysical : I wish tfjey would learn to speak more to the 
heart, and less to the understanding : bn t alas ! this is a talent 
which Heaven only can bestow : whereas the philosophic spirit 
C as we call it) is mei-ely artificial and level to the capacity of 
every man, who has mucli patience, a little learning, a.id no 
taste." He has since dilated on this just sentiment in bis admira- 
ble Essay on the Immutability of Truth . 



OR ay's letters. 141 

tion to the heart is frequent, and often suc- 
cessfuL His love of Montesquieu and Ta- 
citus has led him into a manner of writing 
too short-winded and sententious; which 
those great men, had they lived in better 
times and under a better governmeDt, would 
have avoided. 

I know no pretence that I have to the 
honour lord Gray is pleased to do metj 
but if his lordship chooses to own me, it 
certainly is not my business to deny it. I 
say not this merely on account of his quali- 
ty, but because he is a very worthy and ac- 
complished person. I am truly sorry for 
the great loss he has had since I left Scot- 
Lmd. If you should chance to see him, I 
will beg you to present my respectful hum- 
ble service to his lordship. • 

I gave Mr. WiUiamson all the information 
I was able in the short time he stayed with 
me. He seemed to answer well the cha- 
racter you gave me of him: but what I 
chielly envied in him, was his ability of 
walking all the way from Aberdeen to Cam- 
bridge, and back again; which if I posses- 
sed, you would soon see your obliged, &.c. 

t Lord Gray had said tbat cur author was relattxl to his family 



142 gray's letters. 



CXXXIl. 



TO MR. EEATTIE. 



Fembtoke-Hall, Dec. 24, 1767. 

Since I had the pleasure of receiving your 
last letter, which did not reach me till 1 had 
left the North, and was come to London, I 
have been confined to my room with a fit of 
the gout: now I am recovered and in quiet 
at Cambridge, I take up my pen to thank 
you for your very friendly offers, which 
have so much the air of frankness and real 
good meaning, that were my body as tracta- 
ble and easy of conveyance as my mind, you 
would see me to-morrow in the chamber you 
have so hospitably laid out for me at Aber- 
deen. But, alasl I am a summer-bird, and 
can only sit drooping till the sun returns: 
even then too my wings may chance to be 
clipped, and little in plight for so distant an 
excursion. 

The proposal you make me, about print- 
ing at Glasgow what little I have ever writ- 
ten, does me honour. I leave my reputation 
in that part of the kingdom to your care: 
and only desire you would not set your par- 
tiality to me and mine mislead you. If you 



143 

persist in your design, Mr. Foulis certainly 
ought to be acquainted with what I am now 
going to tell you When I was in London 
the last spring, Dodsley, the bookseller, 
asked nay leave to reprint, in a smaller form, 
all I ever published; to which I consented: 
and added, that 1 would send him a few ex- 
planatory notes; and if he would omit en- 
tirely the Lons^ Story (which was never 
meant for the public, and only suffered to 
appear in that pompous edition because of 
Mr. Bentley's designs, which were not intel- 
ligible without it), I promised to send him 
something else to print instead of it, lest the 
bulk of so small a volume should be reduced 
to nothing at all. Now it is very certain 
that 1 had rather see them printed at Glas- 
gow (especially as you will condescend to 
revise the press) than at London; but I know 
not how to retract my promise to Dodsley. 
By the way, you perhaps may imagine that 
I have some kind of interest in this publica- 
tion; but the truth is, I have none whatever. 
The expense is his, and so is the profit if 
there be any. I therefore told him the 
other day, in general terms, that I he^ird 
there would be an edition put out in Scot- 
land, by a friend of mine, whom I could not 
refuse; and that, if so, I would send thither 



144 GRAV'S LETTERS. 

a copy of the same notes and additions that 
I had proniisod to send to hirn. This did 
not seem at all to cool his courage; Mr. 
Foulis must therefore judjj;e for himself, 
whether he thinks it uortii while to print 
what is going to he printed also at London. 
If he docs, I will send him (in a packet to 
you) the ^ame things I shall send to Dodsley. 
They arc imitations of two pieces of old 
Norwegian poetry, in vvhicii there was a 
wild spirit that struck me: but for my para- 
plirases I cannot say nrtich; you will judge. 
The rest are nothing but a few parallel 
passages, and small notes just to explain 
what people said at the time was wrapped in 
total darkness. You will please to tell me. 
as soon as you can conveniently, what Mr. 
Foulis says on this head; that (if he drops 
the design) 1 may save myself and you the 
trouble of this packet. 1 ask your pardon 
for talking so long about it; a little more, 
and my letter would be as big as all my 
works. 

I have read, with much pleasure, an ode 
of yours (in which you have done me the 
honour to adopt a measure that 1 have used) 
on lord Hay's birth-day Though I do not 
love panegyric, I cannot but applaud this, 
for there is nothing mean in it. The diction 



gray's letters. 145 

is easy and noble, the textnre of the thoughts 
lyric, and the versification harmonious. The 
few expressions I object to are * * *. These, 
indeed, are minutiae; but they weigh for 
something, as half a grain makes a difference 
in the value of a diamond. 



CXXXIII. 

TO MR. HOVf . 

Pembrt)ke.Hall, Jan. 12, 1768. 

I WAS willing to go through the eight volumes 
of count Algarotti's works, which you lately 
presented to the library of this college, be- 
fore I returned you an answer: this must be 
my excuse to you for my silence. First, 1 
condole with you, that so neat an edition 
should swarm in almost every page with 
errors of the press, not only in notes and 
citations from Greek, English and French 
authors, but in the Italian text itself, greatly 
to the disreputation of the Leghorn pub- 
lishers. This is the only reason, I think, 
that could make an edition in England ne- 
ces<iary; but, I doubt, you would not find the 
matter much mended here; onr presses, as 
they improve in beauty, declining daily ip 
VOL. IV. 26 



146 GRAY S LETTERS. 

accuracy; besides, you would find the expense 
very considerable, and the sale in no propor- 
tion to it, as, in reality, it is but few people 
in England that read currently and with 
pleasure the Italian tongue, and the fine old 
editions of their capital writers are sold at 
London for a lower price than they bear in 
Italy. An English -translation I can by no 
means advise; the justness of thought and 
good sense might remain, but the graces of 
elocution (which make a great part of A)ga- 
rotti's merit) would be entirely lost, and that 
merely from the very different genius and 
complexion of the two languages. 

Doubtless there can be no impropriety in 
your making the same present to the uni- 
versity that you have done to your own col- 
lege. You need not at all to fear for the 
reputation of your friend : he has merit 
enough to recommend him in any country. 
A tincture of various sorts of knowledge, an 
acquaintance wich all the beautiful arts, an 
easy command, a precision, warmth, and 
richness of expression, and a judgment that 
is rarely mistaken on any subject to which 
he applies it. 1 had read the Congresso di 
Cittra before, and vvas excessively pleased 
with it, in spite of prejudice; for I am na- 
turally no friend to allegory, nor to poetical 



gray's letters. 147 

prose. The Giudicio d' Amore is an addi- 
tion rather inferior to it. What gives me 
the least pleasure of any of his writings is 
the Newtonianism ; it is so direct an imita- 
tion of Fontenelle, a writer not easy to imi- 
tate, and least of all in the Italian tongue, 
whose character afld graces are of a higher 
style, and never adapt themselves easily to 
the elegant badinage and legereie of conversa- 
tion that sit so well on the French. The essays 
and letters (many of them entirely new to 
me) on the Arts, are curious and entertain- 
ing: those on other subjects (even where 
the thoughts are not nevv, bnt borrow^ed 
from his various reading and conversation) 
often better put, and better expressed than 
in the originals. I rejoice when I see Ma- 
chiavel defended or illustrated, who to me 
appears one of the wisest men that any na- 
tion in any age has produced. Most of the 
other discourses, military or political, are 
well \yorth reading, though that on Kouli 
Khan was a mere jeu d'esprit, a sort of his- 
torical exeicise. The letters from Russia 
I had read before with pleasure, particularly 
the narrative of Munich's and Lascy's cam- 
paigns. The detached thoughts ai^e often 
new and just; but there should have been 
a revisal of them, as they are frequently to 



148 gray's letters. 

be found in his letters repeated in the very 
same words. Some too of the familiar let- 
ters might have been spared. The verses 
are not equal to the prose, but they are 
above mediocrity. 



CXXXIV. 

TO MR. BEATTIE. 

Pembi^ke-Hall, Feb. 1, 1768. 

I AM almost sorry to have raised any degree 
of impatience in you, because I can by no 
means satisfy it. The sole reason 1 have to 
publish these few additions now, is to make 
up (in both) for the omission of that Long 
Story ; and as to the notes, I do it out of 
spite, because the public did not understand 
-the two odes (which I have called Pindaric); 
though the first was not very dark, and the 
second alluded to a few common facts to be 
found in any sixpenny history of England, by 
way of question and answer, for the use of 
children. The parallel passages I insert out 
of justice to those writers from whom 1 hap- 
pened to take the hint of any line, as far as 
I can recollect. 



gray's letters. 149 

I rejoice to be in the hands of Mr. Fouh's, 
who has the laudable ambition of surpassing 
his predecessors, the Etiemtes and the Else- 
vim, as well in literature, as in the proper 
art of his profession : he surprises me in 
mentioning a lady, after whom I have been 
inquiring- these fourteen years in vain. 
When the two odes were first published, I 
sent them to her;^but as I was forced to 
direct them very much at random, probably 
they never came to her hands. When the 
present edition comes out, I beg of Mr. 
Foulis to offer her a copy in my name, with 
my respects and grateful remembrances ; he 
will send another to you, sir, and a third to 
lord Gray, if he will do me the honour of 
accepting it. These are all the presents I 
pretend to make (for I would have it con- 
sidered only as a new edition of an old book); 
after this, if he pleases to send me one or 
two, I shall think myself obliged to him. I 
cannot advise him to print a great number; 
especially as Dodsley has it in his power to 
print as many as he pleases, though I desire 
him not to do so. 

You are very good to me in taking this 
trouble upon you: all I can say is, that I 
shall be happy to return it in kind, when- 
ever you will give me the opportunity. 



150 gray's letters. 



cxxxv. 



TO MR. WALPOLE. 



Feb. 14, 1768, Pembroke Coll^je. 

I RECEIVED the book* you were so good to 
send me, and have read it again (indeed I 
could hardly be said to have read it before) 
with attention and with pleasure. Your 
second edition is so rapid in its progress, 
that it will now hardly answer any purpose 
to tell you either my own objections, or 
those of other people. Certain it is, that 
you are universally read here; but what we 
think, is not so easy to come at. We stay 
as usual to see the success, to learn the 
judgment of the town, to be directed in our 
opinions by those of more competent judges. 
If they like you, we shall; if any one of 
name write against you, we give you up: for 
we are modest and diffident of ourselves, and 
not without reason. History in particular is 
not OUT forte ; for (the truth is) we read only 
modern books and the pamphlets of the day. 
I hdve heard it objected, that you raise 
doubts and difficulties, and do not satisfy 

* The Historic Doubts. 



GRAV'S LETTERS. 151 

them by telling us what was really the case. 
I have heard you charged with disrespect to 
the king of Prussia; and above all to king 
William, and the revolution. These are se- 
riously the most sensible things I have heard 
said, and all that I can recollect. If you 
please to justify yourself, you may. 

My own objections are little more essen- 
tial: they relate chiefly to inaccuracies of 
style, which either debase the expression 
or obscure the meaning. I could point out 
several small particulars of this kind, and 
will do so, if you think it can serve any 
purpose after publication. When I hear 
you read, they often escape me, partly 
because I am attending to the subject, and 
partly because from habit 1 understand you, 
where a stranger might often be at a loss. 

As to your arguments, most of the prin- 
cipal points are made out with a clearness 
and evidence that no one would expect 
where materials are so scarce. Yet I still 
suspect Richard of the murder of Henry 
VI. The chronicler of Croyland charges 
it full on him, though without a name or 
any mention of circumstances. The inte- 
rests of Edward were the interests of 
Ptichard too, though the throne wiere not 
then in view; and that Henry still stood in 



152 gray's letters. 

their way, they might well imagine, because, 
though deposed and imprisoned once before, 
hte had regained his liberty, and his crown; 
and was still adored by the people. I should 
think, from the word tyrannic the passage 
was written after Richard had assumed the 
crown: but if it was earlier, does not the 
bare imputation imply very early suspicions 
at least of Richard's bloody nature, especial- 
ly in the mouth of a person that was no ene- 
my to the house of York, nor friend to that 
of Beaufort? 

That the duchess of Burgundy, to try the 
temper of the nation, should set up a false 
pretender to the throne (when she had the 
true duke of York in her hands), and that 
the queen mother (knowing her son was 
alive) should countenance that design, is a 
piece of policy utterly incomprehensible; 
being the most likely means to ruin their own 
scheme, and throw a just suspicion of fraud 
and falsehood on the cause of truth, which 
Henry could not fail to seize, and turn to 
his own advantage. 

Mr. Hume's first query, as far as relates 
to the queen-mother, will still have some 
weight. Is it probable, she should give her 
eldest daughter to Heniy, and invite him to 
claim the crown, unless she had been sure that 



gray's letters. 153 

her sons were then dead? As to her seem- 
ing consent to the match between Ehzabeth 
and Richard, she and her daughters were in 
his power, which appeared now well fixed, 
h's enemies' designs within the kingdom 
being every where defeated, and Henrj' un- 
able to raise any considerable force abroad. 
She was timorous and hopeless; or she might 
dissemble, in order to cover her secret deal- 
ings with Richmond: and if this were the 
case, she hazarded little, supposing Richard 
to dissemble too, and never to have thought 
seriously of marrying his niece. 

Another unaccountable thing is, that Rich- 
ard, a prince of the house of York, un- 
doubtedly brave, clear-sighted, artful, atten- 
tive to business; of boundless generosity, as 
appears from his grants; just and merciful, 
as his laws and his pardons seem to testify; 
having subdued the queen and her hated fac- 
tion, and been called first to the protector- 
ship and then to the crown by the body of 
the nobility and by the parliament; with the 
common people to friend (as Carte often 
asserts), and having nothing against him but 
the illegitimate family of his brother Edward, 
and the attainted house of Clarence (both of 
them within his povver); — that such a man 
should see within a few months Buckingham, 



154 gray's letters. 

his best friend, and almost all the southern 
and western counties on one day in arms 
against him; that, having seen all these in- 
surrections come to nothing, he should 
march with a gallant army against a handful 
of needy adventurers, led by a fugitive, 
who had not the shadow of a title, nor any 
virtues to recommend him, nor any foreign 
strength to depend on; that he should be 
betrayed by almost all his troops, and fall a 
sacrifice; — all this is to me utterly improba- 
ble, and I do not ever expect to see it ac- 
counted for. 

I take this opportunity to tell you, that 
Algarotti (as I see in the new edition of his 
works printed at Leghorn), being employed 
to buy pictures for Ihe king of Poland, pur- 
chased among others the famous Holbein, 
that was at Venice. It don't appear that he 
knew any thing of your book: yet he calls it 
the consul Meyer and his family^ as if it were 
then known to be so in that city. 

A young man here, who is a diligent rea- 
der of your books, an antiquary, and a 
painter, informs me, that at the Red-lion inn, 
at Newmarket, is a piece of tapestry, con- 
taining the very design of your marriage 
«f Henry the Sixth, only with several more 



gray's letters. 155 

figures in it, both men and women; that he 
would have bought it of the people, but they 
refused to part with it. 

Mr. Mason, who is here, desires to pre- 
sent hi« respects to you. He says, that to 
eilTice from our annals the history of any 
tyrant is to do ^an essential injury to man- 
kind: but he forgives it, because you have 
shown Henry the Seventh to be a greater 
devil than Richard. 

Pray do not be out of humour. When 
you first commenced an author, you ex- 
posed yourself to pit, box, and gallery. 
Any coxcomb in the world may come in and 
hiss, if he pleases; ay, and (what is alniiost 
as bad) clap too, and you cannot hinder bim, 
I saw a little squib fired at you in a newspa- 
per by some of the house of York, for speak- 
ing lightly of chancellors. Adieu! 



CXXXVl. 

TO MR. WALPOLE 

, Pembroke College, Feb. 25, 1768. 

To your friendly accusation, I am glad I can 
plead not guilty with a safe conscience. 
Dodsley told me in the spring that the plates 



156 

from Mr. Bentley's designs were worn out, 
and he wanted to have them copied and re- 
duced to a smaller scale for a new edition. 
I dissuaded him from so silly an expense, 
and desired he would put in no ornaments 
at all. The Lon^ Story was to be totally 
omitted, as its only use (that of explaining 
the prints) was gone: but to supply the place 
of it in bulk, lest my works should be mis- 
taken for the works of a flea, or a pismire, I 
promised to send him an equal weight of 
poetry or prose: so, since my return hither, 
I put' up about two ounces of stuff; viz. 
The Fatal Sisters, The Descent of Odin (of 
both which you have copies), a bit of some- 
thing from the Welsh, and certain little 
notes, partly from justice (to acknowledge 
the debt, where I had borrowed any thing), 
partly from ill temper, just to tell the gentle 
reader, that Edward 1. was not Oliver Crom- 
well, nor queen Elizabeth the witch of En- 
dor. This is literally all; and with all this I 
shall be but a shrimp of an author. I gave 
leave also to print the same thing at Glas- 
gow ; but I doubt my packet has miscarried, 
for I hear nothing pf its arrival aS yet. To 
what you say to me so civilly, that 1 ought to 
write more, I reply in your own words (like 
the pamphleteer, who is going to con- 



okay's letters. 167 

fute you out of your own mouth), What 
has one to do, when turned ^f fifty-, but real- 
ly to think of finishing? However, 1 will 
be candid (for you seem to be so with me), 
and avow to you, that till fourscore and ten, 
whenever the humour takes me, I will write, 
because I like il; and because I like myself 
better when I do so. If I do not write 
much, it is because I cannot. As you have 
not this last plea, I see no reason why you 
should not continue as long as it is agreeable 
to yourself, and to all such as have any cu- 
riosity or judgment in the subjects you 
choose to treat. By the way; let me tell 
you (while it is fresh) that lord Sandwich, 
who was lately dining at Cambridge, speak- 
ing (as 1 am told) handsomely of your book, 
said, it was pity you did not know that his cou- 
sin Manchester had a genealogy of the kings, 
which came down \xo lower than to Richard 
111. and at the end of it were two portraits 
of Richard and his son, in which that king 
appeared to be a handsome man. I tell you 
it as I heard it; perhaps you may think it 
worth inquiring into. 

I have looked into Speed and Leslie. It 
appears very odd that Speed, in the speech 
he makes for P. Warbeck, addressed to' 
James IV. of Scotland, should three times 



158 gray's letters. 

cite the manuscript proclamation of Perkin, 
then in the hands of sir Robert Cotton; and 
yet when he giv^s us the proclamation af- 
terwards (on occasion of the insurrection 
in Cornwall) he does not cite any such 
manuscript. In Casley's Catalogue of the 
Cotton Library you may see whether this 
manuscript proclamation still exists or not: 
if it does, it may be found at the Museum. 
Leslie will give you no satisfaction at all: 
though no subject of England, he could not 
write freely on this matter, as the title of 
Mary his mistress to the crown of England 
was derived from that of Henry VII. Ac- 
cordingly, he every where treats Perkin as 
an impostor; yet drops several little ex- 
pressions inconsistent with that supposition. 
He has preserved no proclamation: he on- 
ly puts a short speech into Perkin's mouth, 
the substance of which is taken by Speed, and 
translated m the end of his, which is a good 
deal longer: the whole matter is treated by 
Leslie very concisely and superficially. I can 
easily transcribe it, if you please; but I do 
not see that it could answer any purpose. 
Mr BoswelTs book I was going to re- 
commend to you, when I received your 
letter: it has pleased and moved me strange- 
ly, all (I mean) that relates to Paoli. He 



GRAY S LETTERS. 169 

IS a man born two thousand years after 
his timet The pamphlet proves what I have 
always maintained, that any fool may write 
a most valuable book by chnnce, if he will 
only tell us what he heard and saw with ve- 
racity. Of Mr. Boswell's truth I have not 
the least suspicion, because I am sure he 
could invent nothing of this kind. The 
true title of this part of his work is, A Dia- 
logue between a Green-goose and a Hero. 

1 had been told of a manuscript in Bene't 
library: the inscription of it is Itineranvm 
Frairis Simonis Sitneonis ft Hiiiionis Illumina' 
toris^ 1322. Would not one iriink this should 
promise something? They v^ere two Fran- 
ciscan friars that came frooi Ireland, and 
passed through Wales to London, to Canter- 
bujy, to Dover, and so to France, in their 
way to Jerusalem. All that relates to our 
own country has been transcribed for me, 
and (sorry am I to say; signihes not a half- 
penny: only this little bit might be inserted 
in your next edition of the Painters: Ad 
aliud caput civitatis (Londoniee) e.?i monas- 
terium nigrorum monachorum nomine West- 
monasteriura, in quo constanter et communi- 
ter omnes reges Angliae sepeliuntur — et 
eidem monasterio quasi immediate i ofijan- 
gitur illud famosissimum palatium regis, in 



160 gray's letters. 

quo est ilia vulgata camera, in ciijus parieti- 
bus sunt omnes historiae bellicae totius Bib- 
lias ineff^ibiliter depictaj, atque in Gallico 
completissime et perfectissime conscriptae, 
in non modica intuentium admiratione et 
maxima regali magnificentia. 

J have had certain observations on your 
Royal and Noble Authors given me to send 
you perhaps about three years ago: last 
week I found them in a drawer, and (my 
conscience being troubled) now enclose them 
to you. I have even forgot whose they are. 

1 have been also told of a passage in Ph. 
de Comines, which (if you know) ought not 
to have been passed over. The book is 
not at hand at present, and I must conclude 
my letter. Adieu ! 



CXXXVII. 

TO MR. WALPOLE. 

Pembroke- College, March 6, 1768. 

Here is sir William Cornwallis, entitled 
Essayes of certaine Paradoxes. 2d Edit, 
1617, Lond. 



gray's letters. 161 

King Richard III. >. 

The French Pockes j 

Nothing I , 

Good to be in debt ;>praisecl. 

Sadnesse 

Juhan the Apostate's vertiies J 
The title-page nill probably suffice you; but 
if you would know any more of him, he has 
read nothing but the common chronicles, 
and tliose without attention: for example, 
speaking of Anne the queen, he says, she 
was barren^ of which Richard had often com- 
plained to Rotheram. He extenuates the 
murder of Henry VI. and his son: the first, 
he says, might be a malicious accusation, for 
that many did suppose he died of mere 
melancholy and grief: the latter cannot be 
proved to be the action of Richard (though 
executed in his presence); and if it were, 
he did it out of love to his brother Edward. 
He justifies the death of the lords at Fom- 
fret, from reasons of state, for his own pre- 
servation, the safety of the commonwealth, 
and the ancient nobility. The execnlion of 
Hastings he excuses from necessity, from 
the dishonesty and sensuality of tl.e man: 
what was his crime with respect to Richard^ 
he does not say. Dr. Shaw's sermon was 
not by th'- king's command, but to be impat- 
VOL. IV. 27 



162 gray's letters. 

ed to the preacher's own ambition: but if it 
was by order, to charge his mother with adul- 
tery was a matter of no such gnat moment^ 
since it is no wonder in that bcx. Of the 
murder in the Tower he doubts; but if it 
were by his order, the offence was to God, 
not to his people; and how could he dtmon- 
slraie his love more amply ^ than to venture his 
soul for their quiet ? Have you enough, pray? 
You see it is an idle declamation, the exer- 
cise of a school-boy that is to be bred a 
statesman. 

I iiave looked in Stowe: to be sure there 
is no proclamation there. Mr. Hume, I 
suppose, means Speed, where it is given, 
hovv truly I know not; but that he had seen 
the original is sure, and seems to quote the 
very words of it in the beginning of that 
f^peech which Perkin makes to James IV. 
and also just afterwards, where he treats of 
the Cornish rebellion. 

Gulhrie, you see, has vented himself in 
trie Critical Review. His History I never 
saw, nor is it here, nor do 1 know any one 
that ever saw it. He is a rascal, but rascals 
may chance to meet with curious records; 
and Uiat commission to sir J. Tyrell (if it 
be not a lie) is such: so is the order for 
Henry the Sixth's funeral. I would by no 



gray's letters. 163 

means take notice of him, write what he 
would. I am glad you have seen the Man-" 
chester-roll. 

It is not I that talk of Phil, de Comines; 
it was mentioned to me as a thing that look- 
ed like a voluntary omission: but 1 see you 
have taken notice of it in the note to page 
71, though rather too slightly. You have 
not observed that the same v/riter says,c, 
55, Richard tua de sa main, ou Jit tucr en sa 
presence, quelqiie lieu apart, ce bon homtne le 
roi Henri/. Another oversight I think there 
is at p. 43, where you speak of the roll of 
parliament and the contract with lady Elea- 
nor Boteler, as things newly come to light; 
whereas Speed has given at large the same 
roll in his History. Adieu! 



CXXXVIII. 

TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON. 

Cambridge, July, 1768. 

My lord, 
YbuR grace has dealt nobly with me; and 
the same delicacy of mind that induced you 
to confer this favour on me, unsolicited and 
unexpected, may perhaps make you averse 



164 gray's letters. 

to receive my sincerest thanks and grateful 
acknowledgments. Yet your grace must 
excuse me, they will have theii* way: they 
are indeed but words; yet I know and feel 
they come fi-om my heart, and therefore are 
not wholly unworthy of your grace's accep- 
tance. I even flatter myself (such is my 
pride) that you have some little satisfaction 
in your own work. If I did not deceive 
myself in this, it would complete the happi- 
ness of, A 
My lord, your grace's 

Most obliored and devoted servant. 



CXXXIX. 



Jerniyn-street, Aug. 3, 1768. 

That Mr. Brocket has broken his neck by 
a fall from his horse, you will have seen in 
the newspapers; and also that I, your hum- 
ble servant, have kissed the king's hand for 
his succession; they are both true, but the 
manner how you know not; only 1 can as- 

* Rector of Lou nde and Bradwell,in Suffolk. His acquaintance 
with Mr. Gray commenced a few years before the date ef this, 
when he was a student of Trinity-Hall, Cambridge. 



gray's letters. 165 

sure you that I had no hand at all in his fall, 
and almost as little in the second event. He 
died on the Sunday; on Wednesday follow- 
ing his grace the duke of Grafton wrote me 
a very polite letter, to say that his majesty 
had commanded him to offer me the vacant 
professorship, not only as a reward of, &c. 
but as a credit to, &c. with much more too 
high for me to transcribe. So on Thursday 
the king signed the warrant, and next day, 
at his levee, I kissed his hand; he made me 
several gracious speeches, which I shall not 
repeat, because every body, that goes to 
court, does so: besides, the day was so hot, 
and the ceremony so embarrassing to me, 
that I hardly knew what he said. 

Adieu. 1 am to perish here with heat 
this fortnight yet, and then to Cambridge; 
to be sure my dignity is a little the worse for 
wear, but mended and washed, it will do for 
me. 



CXL. 

TO MR. BEATTIE. 

Fembroke-Hall, Oct. 31, 1768. 

It is some time since I received from Mr. 
Foulis two copies of my poems, one by the 



166 gray's letters. 

hands of Mr. T. Pitt, the other by Mr. Mer- 
rill, a bookseller of this town: it is indeed a 
most beautiful edition, and must certainly do 
credit both to him and to me: but 1 fear it 
will be of no other advantage to him, as 
J^odsley has contrived to glut the town 
alreadj' with two editions beforehand, one of 
1500, and the other of 750, both indeed far 
inferior to that of Glasgow, but sold at half 
the price. I must repeat my thanks, sir, 
for the trouble you have been pleased to 
give yourself on my. account; and through 
you I must desire leave to convey my 
acknowledgmetits to Mr. Foulis, for the 
pains and expense he has been at in this 
publication. 

We live at sp great a distance, that, per- 
liaps, you may not yet have learned, what, 
I flatter myself, you will not be displeased to 
hear: the middle of last summer his majes- 
ty was pleased to appoint me Regius Profes- 
sor of Modern History in this university; it 
is the best thing the crown has to bestow 
(on a layman) here; the salary is 400/. per 
annum, but what enhances the value of it to 
me is, that it was bestowed without being 
asked. The person who held it before me, 
died on the Sunday; and on Wednesday fol- 
Ipwins: the duke of r, r;^fton wrote me a let- 



gray's letters. 167 

ter to say, tbot the king offered me this 
office, with many additional expressions of 
kindness on his grace's part, to whom 1 am 
but little known, and whom I have not seen 
either before or since he did me this favour. 
Instances of a benetit so nobly conferred, I 
believe, are rare; and therefore I tell you 
of it as a thing that does honour, not only to 
me, but to the minister. 

As 1 lived here before from choice, I shall 
now continue to do so from obligation: if 
business or cmi iosity sho'.j'id call yoa south- 
wards, you will find few friends that will see 
you with more cordial satisfaction, than. 
dear sir, &c. 



CXLI. 

TO MR. NICHOLLS. 

{ WAS absent from college, and did not re- 
ceive your melancholy letter till my return 
hither yesterday; so you must not attribute 
this delay to me but to accident; to sympa- 
thize with you in such a loss* is an easy task 

* The death of bis uncle, goranor Floycr. 



16*8 gray's letters. 

for me, but to comfort you not so easy; can I 
wish to see you unaffected witli the sad 
scene now before your eyes, or with the 
loss of a person that, through a great part 
of your life, has proved himself so kind 
a friend to you? He who best knows our 
nature (for he made us what we are) by 
such afflictions recalls us from our wander- 
ing thoughts and idle merriment; from the 
insolence of youth and prosperity, to seri- 
ous reflection, to our duty, and to himself; 
nor need we hasie'.i to get rid of these im 
pressions; time (by appointment of the same 
Power) will cure the smart, and in some 
hearts soon blot out all the traces of sor- 
row: but such as preserve them longest 
(for it is partly left in our own power) do 
■perhaps best acquiesce in the will of the 
Chastiser. 

For the consequences of this sudden loss, 
I see them well, and I think, in a like 
situation, could fortily my mind, so as to 
support them with cheerfulness and good 
hopes, though not naturally inclined to see 
things in their best aspect. When you 
have time to turn yourself round, you 
must think seriously of your profession; 
you know I would have wished to see you 
wear the livery of it long ago: but I will 



gray's letters. 169 

DOt dwell on this subject at present. To 
be (ibliged to those we love and esteem is a 
ple-isure; but to serve and oblige them is 
a still greater; and this, with independence 
(no vulgar blessing) are what a profession 
at your age may reasonably promise: with- 
out it they are hardly attainable. Remem- 
ber 1 speak from experience. 

In the mean time, while your present 
situation lasts, which I hope will not be 
long, continue your kindness and confidence 
in me, by trusting me with the whole of 
it; and surely you hazard nothing by so 
doing: that situation does not appear so 
new to me fis it 4loes to you. You well 
know the tenour of my conversation (urged 
at times perhaps a little farther than you 
liked) has been intended to*^ prepare you 
for this event, and to familiarize your mind 
with this spectre, which you call by its 
worst name: but remember that " Honesta 
res est leeta paupertas." I see it with re- 
spect, and so will every one, whose pov- 
erty is not seated in their mind.* There 
is but one real evil in it (take my word 
who know it well) and that is, that you 
have less the power of assisting others, 

* An excellent thought finely expressed* 



170 gray's letters. 

who have not the same resources to sup- 
port them. You have youth: you have 
many kind well-intentioned people belong- 
ing to you; many acquaintance of your 
own, or families that will wish to serve 
you. Consider how many have had the 
same, or greater cause for dejection, with 
none of these resources before their eyes. 
Adieu! I sincerely wish you happiness. 

P.S. I have just heard that a friend of 
mine is struck with a paralytic disorder, 
in which state it is likely he may live 
incapable of assisting himself, in the hands 
of servants or relations that only gape after 
his spoils, perhaps for vcais tG come: think 
how many things may befall a man far worse 
thrtn poverty or death. 



CXUI. 

TO MR. NICHOLLS. 

Pembroke College, June 24, 1769. 

And so you have a garden of your own,* 
and you plant and transplant, and are dirty 

* Mr. Nicholls, by having pursued the advice of his correspon- 
dent, we find was now possessed (^ that eonipeteiicy which he 



okay's letters. 171 

and amused! Are not you ashamed of your- 
self ? Why, I have no such thing, you mon- 
ster, uor ever shall be either dirty or amus- 
ed as long as I live. My gardens are in 
the windows like those of a lodger up three 
pair of stairs in Petticoat-Lane, or Camo- 
mile-Street, and they go to bed regularly 
under the same roof that I do. Dear, how 
charming it must be to walk out in one's 
own gardins^^ and sit on a bench in the opea 
air, with a fountain and leaden statue, and 
a rolling stone, and an arbour: have a care 
of soar-throats though, and the agoe. 

However, be it known to you, though I 
have no garden, I have sold my estate and 
got a thousand guineas,* and fourscore 
pounds a year for mv old aunt, and a twenty 
pound prize in the lottery, and Lord knows 
what arrears in the treasury, and am a rich 
fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath 
had losses, and one that hath two gowns, 

wished him. Happy^ not only in having so sage an adviser, but 

ill his own good sense which pron.pted him to follow such advice. 

The g:ayety, whim, and humour of this letter contrast prettily with 

the gravity and serious reflection of the former. 
* Consisting of houses on the west side of Hand-Alley. London : 

Mrs. Glide was the aunt here mentioned, who bad a share in this 
estate, and for whom iie procured this annuity.^ She died in 1771, 
a few raomhs before her nephew. 



172 grab's letters. 

a!id every thing handsome about hitn, and in 
a few days shall have new window curtains: 
are you advised of that? Ay, and a new 
mattress to lie upon. 

My ode has been rehearsed again and 
again,* and the scholars have got scraps by 
heart: I expect to see it torn piece-meal in 
the North-Briton before it is born. — If you 
will come you shall see it, and sing in it 
amidst a chorus from Salisbury and Glouces- 
ter music meeting, great names there, and 
all well versed in Judas Maccabaeus. I wish 
it were once over; for then I immediately 
go for a few days to London, and so with 
Mr. Brown to Aston, though I fear it will 
rain the whole summer, and Skiddaw will 
be invisible and inaccessible to mortals. 

I have got De la Lande's Voyage through 
Italy, in eight volumes; he is a member of 
the academy of sciences, and pretty good to 
read. I have read too an octavo volume of 
Shenstone's Letters: poor man! he was al- 
ways wishing for money, for fame, and other 
distinctions; and his whole philosophy con- 
sisted in living against his will in retirement, 
and in a place which his taste had adorned; 
but which he onl}*" enjoyed when people of 

t Ocle for Music on the duke of Grafton's installation. Sec 
Poems. His reason for writing it is given in the next letter. 



ghay's letters. 173 

note came to see and commend it: his cor- 
respondence is about nothing else but this 
place and his own writings, with two or 
three neighbouring clergymen who wrote 
verses too. 

I have just found the. beginning of a let- 
ter, which somebody had dropped: I should 
rather call it tirst-thoughts for the begin- 
ning of a letter; for there are many scrr^tches 
and correction?. As 1 cannot use it myself, 
(having got a beginning already of my own) 
I send it for your use on some great occa- 
sion. 

Dar Sir., 

" After so long silence, the hopes of par- 
don, and prospect of forgiveness might seem 
entirely extinct, or at least very remote, 
was 1 not truly sensible of your goodness 
and candour, which is the only asylum that 
my negligence can fly to, since every apo- 
logy wo lid prove insufficient to counter- 
balance it, or alleviate my fault: how then 
shall my deficiency presume to make so bold 
an attempt, or be able to suffer the hard- 
ships of so rough a campaign?" kc. &;c. &c. 



174 GRAY S LETTERS. 



CXLIIl. 



TO MR. BEATTIE. 

Cambridge, July 16, 1769. 

The late ceremony of the chike of Grafton's 
installation has hindered me from acknow- 
ledging sooner the satisfaction your friendly 
compliment gave me: I thought myself bound 
in gratitude to his grace, unasked, to take 
upon me the task of writing those verses 
which are usually set to music on this occa- 
sion.* I do not think them worth sending 
you, because tliey are by nature doomed to 
live but a single day; or, if their existen«"e 
is prolonged beyond that date, it is only by 
means of newspaper parodies, and witless 
criticisms. This sort of Jibuse I had reason 
to expect, but did not think it worth while 
to avoid. 

* In a short note ■whirh he vftote to Mr. Stonhewer, June 12, 
-when, at his request, he seiit him the ode in manuscript for his 
grace's perusal, he exprestss this motive more fully. " I did not 
intend the duke should have heard me till he could not help it. 
Tou are desired to make the best excuses you can to his grace for 
the liberty I have taken of praising him to his face ; but as some- 
body was necessai'ily to do this, I did uot see why gratitude should 
sit silent and leave it to Fxpectation to sing, who certainly would 
hare sung* and that a gorge deployee upon such an occasion." 



gray's letters. 175 

Mr. Foulis is maj;nilicent in his gratitude:* 
I cannot figure to myself ho'.v it can be worth 
his while to offer me such a present. Yon 
can judge better of it than I; and if he does 
not hurt himself by it, I would accept bis 
Homer with many thanks. I have not got or 
even seen it. 

I could wish to subscribe to his new edi- 
tion of Milton, and desire to be set down for 
two copies of the large paper; but you must 
inform me where and when I may pay the 
money. 

You have taught me to long for a second 
letter, and particularly for what you say will 
make the contents of it. t 1 have nothing to 
requite it with but plain and friendly truth, 
and that you shall have, joined to a zeal for 
your ftime, and a pleasure in your success. 

I am now setting forward on a journey 
towards the north of England; but it will not 
reach so far as I could wish. I must return 
hither before Michaelmas, and shall barely 

* When the Glasgow edition of Air Gray's poems was sold off' 
(which it was in a short tiine) Mr. Foulis, finding hiir.self a con- 
siderable gainer, raeutioued to Mi. Bcattie, tba> he wished to make 
Ml- Gray a present either of his Homei', in 4 vols, folio, or the 
Greek historians, piiiited likewise at his press, in : Q vols, duode- 
eimo. 

t His forrespondent had intimated to him his intention of send- 
ing him his first book of the Minsttel. 



176 ©ray's letters. 

have time to visit a few places, and ;j few 
friends. 



CXLIV. 



TO DR. WHARTON. 

Aston, Oct. 18, 1769. 

J HOPE yo«] got safe and well home after that 
troublesome night.'* 1 long- to hear jou say 
so. For me, 1 have continued well, been so 

* Dr. Wharton, who had intended to accompany Mr Gray to 
Keswick, was seized at Brongh with a violent fit of his asthma, 
which obliged him to retvim home. This was the reason thai Mr. 
Gray undertook to write the following journal of his tour for his 
friend's amusement. He sent it under diftert rit covers. I give it 
here in continuation. It may not he amiss, however, to hint to the 
reader, that if he expects to find elaborate and nicelj-turntd peri- 
ods in this narration, he will be givatly .dlsappointetl. "When Mr. 
Gray described places, he aimed only to be exact, tkar, and intel- 
ligible ; to convey peculiar, not general ideas, and to paint by the 
eye, not the fancy. There lave been many accounts of the West- 
moreland and Cumberland lakes, both before and since this was 
written, and all of them better calculated to please readers who 
are fond of what they C2i\\fne writing : yet those, who can content 
themselves with an elegant simplicity of nanative, will, I flatter 
jnyself, find this to their taste ; they will i)erceive it was written 
with a view rather to inform than surprise ; and, if they make it 
their co.npanion when they take the same tour, it will enhance 
their opinion of its intrinsic excellence ; in this way I tiied it 
myself before 1 resolved to print it. 



gray's letters. 177 

favoured by the weather, that my walks 
have never once been hindered till yester- 
day) that is a fortnight and three or four 
days, and a journey of more than 300 miles). 
I am novv at Aston for tvvo da\'^s. To-mor- 
row I go to Cambridge. Mason is not here, 
but Mr. Alderson receives me. According 
to my promise, I send you the first sheet of 
my journal, to be continued without end. 

Sept. 30. A mile and a half from Brough, 
where we parted, on a hill, lay a great army* 
encamped: to the left opened a fine valley 
with green meadows and hedge-rows, a gen- 
tleman's house peeping forth from a grove of 
old trees. On a nearer approach appeared 
myriads of cattle and horses in the road itself, 
and in all the fields round me, a brisk stream 
hurrying cross the way, thousands of clean 
healthy people in their best party-coloured 
apparel: farmers and their families, enquires 
and their daughters, hastening up from the 
dales and down the fells from every quarter, 
glittering in the sun, and pressing forward 
to join the throng; while the dark bins, on 
whose tops the mists were yet hanging, 
served as a contrast to this gay and moving 

* There is a great fair for cattle kept on the Wll near Brough 
on this day and the prectdiug. 

VOL. ir. 28 



178 gray's letters. 

scene, which continued for near two miles 
more along the road, and the crowd (coming 
towards it) reached on as far as Appleby. 
Op the ascent of the hill above Appleby the 
thick hanging wood, and the long reaches 
of the Eden, clear, rapid, and as full as ever, 
winding below, with views of the castle and 
town, gave much employment to the mir- 
ror:'^ but now the sun was wanting, and the 
sky overcast. Oats and barley cut every 
where, but not carried in. Passed Kirby- 
thore, sir William Dalston's house at Acorn- 
Bank, Whinfield Park, Harthorn Oaks, Coun- 
tess-Pillar, Brougham Castle, Mr. Brown's 
large new house ; crossed the Eden and the 
Eimot (pronounce Eeman) with its green 
vale, and dined at three o'clock with Mrs. 
Buchanan at Penrith, on trout and partridge. 
In the afternoon walked up Beacon-hill, a 
mile to the top, and could see Ulswater 
through an opening in the bosom of that 
cluster of broken mountains, which the doc- 
tor well remembers, Whinfield and Lowther 

* Mr. Gray carried usually with him on these tours a planet 
convex mirror of about four inches diameter on a black foil, and 
bound up like a pocket-book. A glass of this soit is perhaps the 
best and most convenient sul'stitute for a camera obscura, of 
any thing that has hitherto be«n iiirented, and may be hsui cf any 
optician. 



gray's letters. 179 

parks, &c. and the craggy tops of an hun- 
dred nameless hills: these lie to west and 
south. To the north, a great extent of 
black and dreary plains. To the east, Cross- 
fell, just visible through mists and vapours 
hovering round it. 

Oct, 1. A gra3^ autumnal day, the air per- 
fectly calm and mild; went to see Ulswater, 
five miles distant; soon left the Keswick- 
road, and turned to thfe left, through shady 
lanes, along the vale of Eeman, which runs 
rapidly on near the way, rippling over the 
stones; to the right is Delmaine, a large 
fabric of pale red stone, with nine windows 
in front and seven on the side, built by Mr. 
Hassle; behind it a fine lawn surrounded by 
woods, and a long rocky eminence rising 
over them: a clear and brisk rivulet runs 
by the house to join the Eeman, whose 
course is in sight and at a small distance. 
Farther on appears Hatton St. John, a cas- 
tle-like old mansion of Mr. Huddleston. 
Approached Dunmallert, a fine pointed hill 
covered with wood, planted by old Mr. 
Hassle before-mentioned, who lives always 
at home, and delights in planting. Walked 
over a spongy meadow or two, and began to 
mount the hill through a broad straight green 
alley among the trees, and with some toil 



)80 

gained the summit. From hence saw the 
lake opening directly at my feet, majestic in 
its calmness, clear and smooth as a blue 
mirror, with winding shores and low points 
of land covered with green enclosures, white 
farm-houses looking out among the trees, 
and cattle feeding. The water is almost 
every where bordered with cultivated lands, 
gently sloping upwards from a mile to a 
quarter of a mile in breadth, till' they reach 
the feet of the mountains, which rise very 
rude and awful with their broken tops on 
either hand. Directly in front, at better 
than three miles distance, Place-Fell, one 
of the bravest among them, pushes its bold 
broad breast into the midst of the lake, and 
forces it to alter its course, forming first 
a large bay to the left, and then bending to 
the right. I descended Dunmallert again by 
a side avenue, that was only not perpen- 
dicular, and came to Bartonbridge over the 
JEeman, then walking through a path in the 
wood round the bottom of the hill, came 
forth where the Eeman issues out of the 
lake, and continued my way along its wes- 
tern shore close to the water, and generally 
on a level with it. Saw a cormorant flying 
over it and fishing. The figure of the lake 
nothing resembles that laid down in our 



gray's letters. 181 

maps: it is nine miles long, and at widest 
under a mile in breadth. After extending 
itself three miles and a half in a line to the 
south-west, it turns at the foot of Place«Fell 
almost due west, and is here not twice the 
breadth of the Thames at London. It is 
soon again interrupted b}'^ the root of Hel- 
vellyn, a lofty and very rugged mountain; 
and spreading again, turns oft' to south-east, 
and is lost among the deep recesses of the 
hills. To this second turning I pursued ray 
way about four miles along its borders be- 
yond a village scattered among trees, and 
called Water-Mallock, in a pleasant grave 
day, perfectly calm and warm, but without 
a gleam of sunshine; then the sky seeming 
to thicken, and the valley to grow more de- 
solate, and evening drawing on, I returned 
by the way 1 came to Penrith. 

OcL 2. I set out at ten for Keswick, by 
the road we went in 1767; saw Greystock 
town and castle to the right, which lie about 
three miles from Ulswater over the fells; 
passed through Penradoch and Threlcot at 
the foot of Saddleback, whose furrowed sides 
were gilt by the noonday sun, whilst its 
brow appeared of a sad purple from the 
shadow of the clouds as they sailed slowly 
by it. The broad aid green valley of Gar 



i'6'£ gray's letters. 

dies and Lowside, with a swift stream glit- 
tering among the cottages and meadows, lay 
to the left, and the much finer but narrower 
valley of St. John's opening into it: Hilltop, 
the large though low mansion of the Gas- 
karths, now a farm-house, seated on an emi- 
nence among woods, under a steep fell, was 
what appeared the most conspicuous, and 
beside it a great rock, like some ancient 
tower nodding to its fall. Passed by the 
side of Skiddaw and its cub called Latter-rig; 
and saw from an eminence, at two miles 
distance, the vale of Elysium in all its ver- 
dure; VhQ sun then playing on the bosom of 
the lake, and lighting up all the mountains 
with its lustre. Dined by two o'clock at the 
Queen's Head, and then straggled out alone 
to the Parsonage, where I saw the sun set 
in all its glory. 

Oct. 3. A heavenly day; rose at seven 
and walked out under the conduct of my 
landlord to Borrowdale; the grass was co- 
vered with a hoar-frost, which soon melted 
and exhaled in a thin blueish smoke; crossed 
the meadows, obliquely catching a diversity 
of views among the hills over the lake and 
islands, and changing prospect at every ten 
paces. Left Cockshut (which we formerly 
mounted J and Castle-hill, a loftier and more 



GRAlr's LETTERS. 183 

rugged hill behind me, and drew near the 
foot of Wallacrag, whose bare and rocky- 
brow cut perpendicularly down above 400 
feet (as I guess, though the people call it 
much more) awfully overlooks the way. 
Our path here tends to the left, and the 
ground gently rising and covered with a 
glade of scattering trees and bushes on the 
very margin of the water, opens both ways 
the most delicious view that my eyes ever 
beheld; opposite are the thick woods of lord 
Egremont and Newland-valley, with green 
and smiling fields embosomed in the dark 
cliffs; to the left the jaws of Borrowdale, 
with that turbulent chaos of mountain be- 
hind mountain, rolled in confusion; beneath 
you, and stretching far away to the right, 
the shining purity of the lake reflecting 
rocks, woods, fields, and inverted tops of 
hills, just ruffled by the breeze, enough to 
show it is alive, with the white buildings of 
Keswick, Crosthwaite church, and Skiddaw 
for a back ground at a distance. Behind 
you the magnificent heights of Walla-crag: 
here the glass played its part divinely ; the 
place is called Carfclose-reeds; and 1 chose 
to set down these barbarous names, that any 
body may inquire on the place, and easily 
find the particular station that I mean. This 



184 gray's letters. 

scene continues to Barrow-gate, and a little 
farther, passing a brook called Barrow-beck; 
we entered Borrowdale: the crags named 
Lawdoor banks begin now to impend terribly 
over your way, and more terribly when you 
hear that three years since an immense mass 
of rock tumbled at once from the brow, and 
barred all access to the dale (for this is the 
only road) till they could work their way 
through it. Luckily no one was passing at 
the time of this fall; but down the side of the 
mountain, and far into the lake, lie dispersed 
the huge fragments of this ruin in all shapes 
and in all directions: something farther we 
turned aside into a coppice, ascending a 
little in front of Lawdoor water-fall; the 
height appeared to be about 200 feet, the 
quantity of water not great, though (these 
three days excepted) it had rained daily in 
the hills for near two months before: but 
then the stream was nobly broken, leaping 
from rock to rock, and foaming with fury. 
On one side a towering crag that spired up 
to equal, if not overtop, the neighbouring 
tilifls (this lay all in shade find darkness): on 
the other hand a rounder broader projecting 
hill shagged with wood, and illuminated by 
the sunj which glanced sideways on the up- 
per part of the cataract. The force of the 



gray's letters. 185 

water wearing a deep channel in the ground, 
hurries away to join the lake. We descend- 
ed again, and passed the streano over a rude 
bridge. Soon after we came under Gowdar- 
crag, a hill more formidable to the eye, and 
to the apprehension, than that of Lawdoor; 
the rocks at top, deep-cloven perpendicular- 
ly by the rains, hanging loose and nodding 
forwards, seem just starting from their base 
in shivers. The whole way down, and the 
road on both sides is strewed with piles of 
the fragments strangely thrown across each 
other, and of a dreadful bulk; the place re- 
minds me of those passes in the Alps, where 
the guides tell you to move on with speed, 
and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air 
should loosen the snows above, and bring 
down a mass that would overwhelm a cara- 
van. I took their counsel here, and hasten- 
ed on in silence. 

Non ragioDiam di lor, ma g^uarda, e passa ! 

The hills here are clothed all up their 
steep sides with oak, ash, birch, holly, kc. : 
some of it has been cut forty years ago, 
some within these eight years; yet all is 
sprung again, green, flourishing, and tall, for 
its age, in a place where no soil appears but 



186 GRA¥'S LETiTERS. 

the staring rock, and where a man could 
scarce stand upright: here we met a civil 
young farmer overseeing his reapers (for it 
is now oat harvest) who conducted us to a 
neat white house in the vilhige of Grange, 
which is built on a rising ground in the 
midst of a valley; round it the mountains 
form an awful amphitheatre, and through it 
obliquely runs the Derwent clear as glass, 
and showing under its bridge every trout 
that passes. Beside the village rises around 
eminence of rock covered entirely with old 
trees, and over that more proudly towers 
Castle-crag, invested also with wood on its 
sides, and bearing on its naked top some tra- 
ces of a fort said to be Roman. By the side 
of this hill, which al;nost blocks up the way, 
ihe valley turns to the left, and contracts its 
dimensions till there is hardly any road but 
the rocky bed of the river. The wood of 
the mountains increases, and .their summits 
grow loftier to the eye, and of more fantastic 
forms; among them appear Eagle 's-cl iff, 
Dove's-nest, Whitedale-pike, &c. celebrated 
names in the annals of Kesvvick. The dale 
opens about four miles higher till you come 
to Seawhaite (where lies the way, mounting 
the hills to the right, that leads to the Wadd- 
mines); all farther access is here barred to 



gray's letteks. 187 

prying mortals, only there is a little path 
winding over the fells, and for some weeks 
in the year passable to the dalesmen; but 
the mountains know well that these innocent 
people will not reveal the mysteries of their 
ancient kingdom, "the reign of Chaos and 
Old Night:" only 1 learned that this dread- 
ful road, dividing again, leads one branch to 
Ravenglas, and the other to Hawkshead. 

For me, I went no farther than the far- 
mer's (better than four miles from Keswick) 
at Grange; his mother and he brought us 
butter that Siserah would have jumped at, 
though not in a lordly dish, bowls of milk, 
thin oaten cakes and ale; and we had car- 
ried a cold tongue thither with us. Our fir- 
mer was him«elf the man that last year plun- 
dered the eagle's eyrie; all the dale are up 
in arms on such an occasion, for they lose 
abundance of lambs yearly, not to mention 
hares, partridges, grouse, &c. He was let 
down from the cliff in ropes to the shelf of 
the rock on which the nest was bnilt, the 
people above shouting and hollowing to fright 
the old birds, which flew screaming round, 
but did not dare to attack him. He brought 
off the eaglet (for there is rarely more 
than one) and an addle egg. The nest was 
roundish, and more than a yard over, made 



188 Cray's letters. 

of twigs twisted together. Seldom a year 
passes but they take the brood or eggs, 
and sometimes they shoot one, sometimes the 
other parent; but the survivor has alwaj^s 
fonnd a mate (probably in Ireland) and they 
breed near the old place. By his descrip- 
tion, J learn that this species is the Erne^ 
the vulture Albicilla of Linnaeus, in his last 
edition, (but in yours Falco Albicilla) so con- 
sult him and Pennant about it. 

We returned leisurely home the ivay we 
came; but saw a new landscape; the features 
indeed were the same in part, but many 
new ones were disclosed by the mid-day 
sun, and the tints were entirely changed: 
take notice this was the best, or perhaps the 
only day forgoing up Skiddaw, but 1 thought 
it better employed; it was perfectly serene, 
and hot as midsummer. 

In the evening I walked alone down to 
the lake by the side of Crow-park after sun- 
set, and saw the solemn colouring of night 
draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading 
away on the hill-tops, the deep serene of 
the waters, and the long shadows of the 
mountains thrown across them, till they 
nearly touched the hithermost shore. At a 
distance were heard the murmurs of many 



GRAY S LETTERS. 189 

water- fills, not audible in the day-time; I 
wished for the moon, but she was dark to me 
and silent. 

Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. 

Oct. 4. I walked to Crow-park, now a 
rough pasture, once a glade of ancient oaks, 
whose large roots still remain on the ground, 
but nothing has sprung from them. If one sin- 
gle tree had remained, this would have been 
an unparalleled spot; and Smith judged 
right, when he took his print of the lake 
from hence, for it is a gentle eminence, 
not too high, on the very margin of the 
water, and commanding it from end to end, 
looking full into the gorge of Borrowdale. 
I prefer it even to Cockshut-hill, which 
lies beside it, and to which I walked in 
the afternoon; it is covered with young 
trees both sown and planted, oak, spruce, 
Scotch-f^r, kc. all which thrive wonderfully. 
There is an easy ascent to the top, and 
the view far preferable to that on Castle-hill 
(which you remember) because this is lower 
and nearer to the lake: for I find all points, 
that are much elevated, spoil the beauty 
of the valley, and make its parts, which 
are not large, look poor and diminu- 



190 gray's letters. 

live.* While 1 was here a little shower 
fell, red clouds came marching up the hills 
from the east, and part of a bright rain- 
bow seemed to rise along the side of Cas- 
tle-hill. 

From hence 1 got to the Parsonage a lit- 
tle before sun-set, and saw in my glass a 
picture, that if I could transmit to you, and 
tix it in all the softness of its living colours, 
would fairly sell for a thousand pounds. 
This is the sweetest scene 1 can yet discover 
in point of pastoral beauty; the rest are in a 
sublimer style. 

Oct. 5. I walked through the meadows 
and corn-fields to the Derwent, and cross- 
ing it went up How-hill; it looks along Bas- 
singthwaite-water, and sees at the same time 

• The picturesque point is always thus low ia all prospects ; a 
trutk, which though the landscape painter knows, he cannot silwayS 
observe ; since the patron who emplo) s him to lake a view of his 
place, usvially carries him to some elevation for that purjiose, in 
order, I suppose, that he may have more of him for his money. 
Yet when 1 say this, I would not be thought to mean that a draw- 
ing should be made from the lowest poim possible ; as for in- 
stance, in this very vi^w, from the lake itself, for then a fore-ground 
would be wanting. On this account, when I sailed on Derwent- 
■water, I did not receive so much pleasure from the superb amphi- 
theatre of mountains around me, as when, like Mr. Gray, I tra- 
versed its mar^u ; and I therefore think be did not lose much by 
not taking boat. 



gray's letters. 191 

the course of the river, and a part of the 
upper-lake, with a full view of Skiddavv; 
then I took my way through Portingskall 
village to the park, a hill so called, covered 
entirely with wood; it is all a mass of crum- 
bling slate. Passed round its foot between 
the trees and the edge of the water, and 
came to a peninsula that juts out into the 
lake, and looks along it both ways; in front 
rises Walla crag and Castle hiil, the town, 
the road lo Penrith, Skiddaw, and Saddle- 
back. Returning, met a brisk and cold north- 
eastern bl.ist that ruffled all the surface of 
the lake, and made it rise in little waves 
that broke at the foot of the wood. After 
dinner walked up the Penrith road two 
miles, or more, and turning into a corn- 
field to the right, called Castle-rig, saw a 
Druid-circle of large stones, 108 feet in di- 
ameter, the biggest not eight feet high, but 
most of them still erect; they are lifty in 
number. The valley of St. John's appear- 
ed in sight, and the summits of Catchide- 
cam (called by Camden, Casticand) and Hel- 
vellyn, said to be as high as Skiddaw, and to 
rise from a much higher base. 

Oct. 6. ♦Went in a chaise eight miles 
along the east-side of Bassingthwaite water 
to Ousebridge (pronounced Ews-bridge); the 



1^2 gray's letters. 

road in some part made and very good, the 
rest slippery and dangerous cart-road, or 
narrow rug:ged lanes, but no precipices; it 
runs directly along the foot of Skiddavv; op- 
posite to Widhopebrows, clothed to the top 
with wood, a very beautiful view opens 
down to the lake, which is narrower and 
longer than that of Keswick, less broken 
into bays, and without islands.* At the foot 
of it, a few paces from the brink, gently 
sloping upwards, stands Armathwaite in a 
thick grove of Scotch firs, commanding a 
noble view directly up the lake: at a small 
distance behind the house is a large extent 
of wood, and still behind this a ridge of 
cultivated hills, on which, according to the 
Keswick proverb, the sun always shines. 
The inhabitants here, on the contrary, call 
the vale of Derwentwater, the DeviVn Cham- 
ber-pot, and pronounce the name of Skiddaw- 
fell, which terminates here, with a sort of 
terror and aversion. Armathwaite house is 
a modern fabric, not large, and built of dark- 
red stone, belonging to Mr. Spedding, whose 
grandfather was steward to old sir James 

* It is somewhat extraordinary that Mr. Gray omitted to men^ 
tion the islands on Derwentwater ; one of which, I think they call 
it Vicar's Island, makes a principal object in the scene. See 
Smith's View of Derwentwater. 



193 

Lovvther, and bought this estate of the Hi- 
mers. The sky was overcast and the wind 
cool; so, after dining at a public-house, 
which stands here near the bridge, (that 
crosses the Derwent just where it issues 
from the lake) and sauntering a little by the 
water-side, I came home again. The turn- 
pike is finished from Cockermouth hither, 
five miles, and is carrying on to Penrith: se- 
veral little showers to-day. A man came in, 
who said there was snow on Cross-fell this 
morning. 

Oct, 7. I walked in the morning to Crow- 
park, and in the evening up Penrith road. 
The clouds came rolling up the mountains 
all round very dark, yet the moon shone at 
intervals. It was too damp to go towards 
the lake. To-morrow 1 mean to bid fare- 
well to Keswick. 

Botany might be studied here to great ad- 
vantage at another season, because of the 
great variety of soils and elevations, all lying 
within a small compass. I observed nothing 
but several curious lichens, and plenty oi, 
gale or Dutch myrtle perfuming the bor- 
ders of the lake. This year the Wadd- 
raine had been opened, which is-done once 
in five years; it is taken out in lumps some- 
times as big as a man's fist, and will undergo 

VOL. IV. 29 



194 gray's letters. 

no preparation by fire, not being fusible; 
when it is pure, soft, black, and close-grain- 
ed, it is worth sometimes thirty shillings a 
pound. There are no char ever taken in 
these lakes, but plenty in Buttermere water, 
which lies a little way north of Borrow- 
dale, about Martinmas, which are potted 
here. They sow chiefly oats and bigg here, 
which are now cutting and still on the 
ground; the rains have done much hurt: 
yet observe, the soil is so thin and light, 
that no day has passed in which I could not 
walk out with ease, and you know I am no 
lover of dirt. Fell mutton is now in season 
for about six weeks; it grows fat on the 
mountains, and nearly resembles venison. 
Excellent pike and perch, here called bass; 
trout is out of season; partridge in great 
plenty. 

Oct, 8. I left Keswick and took the Am- 
bleside road in a gloomy morning; and about 
two miles from the town mounted an emi- 
nence called Castle-rig, and the sun break- 
ing out, discovered the most enchanting 
view I have yet seen of the whole valley 
behind me, the two lakes, the river, the 
mountains, all in their glory; so that I had 
almost a mind to have gone back again. 
The road in some few parts is not yet com- 



gray's letters. 196 

pleted, yet good country road, through 
sound but narrow and stony lanes, very safe 
in broad^ay-light. This is the case about 
Cause\va^foot, and among Naddle-fells to 
Lancwaite. The vale you go in has little 
breadth; the mountains are vast and rocky, 
the fields little and poor, and the inhabitants 
are now making hay, and see not the sun by 
tvvo hours iji a day so long as at Keswick. 
Came to the foot of Helvellyn, along which 
runs an excellent road, looking down from a 
little height on Lee's water, (called also 
Thirl-meer, or Wiborn water) and soon de- 
scending on its margin. The lake looks 
black from its depth, and from the gloom of 
the vast crags that scowl over it, though 
really clear as glass; it is narrow, and about 
three miles long, resembling a river in its 
course; little shining torrents hurry down 
the rocks to join it, but not a bush to over- 
shadow them, or cover their march; all is 
rock and loose stones up to the very brow, 
which lies so near your way, that not above 
half the height of Helvellyn can be seen. 

Next I passed by the little chapel of 
Wiborn, out of which the Sunday congrega- 
tion were then issuing; soon after a beck 
near Dunmeil-raise, when I entered West- 
moreland a second time; and now began to 



196 gray's letters. 

see Holmcrag, distinguished from its rugged 
neighbours, not so much by its height, as by 
the strange broken outhnes of it* tog, like 
some gigantic building demolishea, and the 
stones that composed it flung across each 
other in wild confusion. Just beyond it- 
opens one of the sweetest landscapes that 
art ever attempted to imitate. The bosom 
of the mountains spreading here into a broad 
basin discovers in the midst Grasmere water; 
its margin is hollowed into small bays, with 
bold eminences; some of rock, some of soft 
turf, that half conceal, and vary the figure 
of the little lake they command; from the 
shore, a low promontory pushes itself far 
into the water, and on it stands a white vil- 
lage with the parish church rising in the 
midst of it: hanging enclosures, corn fields, 
and meadows green as an emerald, with 
their trees and hedges, and cattle, fill up the 
whole space from the edge of the water: 
and just opposite to you is a large farm- 
house at the bottom of a steep smooth lawn, 
embosomed in old woods, which climb half- 
way up the mountain's side, and discover 
above them a broken line of crags that 
crown the scene. Not a single red tile', no 
flaring gentleman's house, or garden walls, 
break in upon the repose of this little un- 



gray's letters. 197 

suspected paradise; but all is peace, rustici- 
ty, and happy poverty, in its neatest most 
becoming attire. 

The road winds here over Grasmere-hil), 
whose rocks soon conceal the water from 
your sight; yet it is continued along behind 
them, and, contracting itself to a river, com- 
municates with Ridale water, another small 
lake, but of inferior size and beauty; it 
seems shallow too, for large patches of reeds 
appear pretty far witljin it. Into this vale 
the road descends. On the opposite banks 
large and ancient woods mount up the hills; 
and just to the left of our way stands Ridale- 
hall, the family-seat of sir Michael Fleming, 
a large old-fashioned fabric, surrounded with 
wood. Sir Michael is now on his travels, 
and all this timber, far and wide, belongs to 
him. Near the house rises a huge crag, call- 
ed Ridale-head, which is said to command a 
full view of Wynander-mere, and I doubt 
it not; for within a mile that great lake is 
visible, even from the road: as to going up 
the crag, one might as well go up Skiddaw. 

I now reached Ambleside, eighteen miles 
from Keswick, meaning to lie there; but, on 
looking into the best bed-chamber, dark and 
damp as a cellar, grew delicate, gave up 
Wynander-mere in despair, and resolved 1 



j98 GRAY S LETTERS. 

would go on to Kendal directly, fourteen 
miles farther.^ The road in general line 
turnpike, but some parts (about three miles 
in all) not made, yet without danger. 

For this determination 1 was unexpected- 
ly well rewarded: for the afternoon was hne, 
and the road, for the space of full five miles, 
ran along the side of Wynander-mere, with 
delicious views across it, and almost from 
one end to the other. It is ten miles m 
length, and at most a mile over, resem- 

* By not staying a little at Ambit side, Mr. Gray lost the sight 
of two most magnificent cascades ; tlie one not above l.alf a mile 
^behind the inn, the other down RidaU-crag, where sir Michael 
Fleming is now making a path-way to the top of it These^ when 
I saw them, were in full towent, whereas Lawdoor water-fall, 
H hich I visited in the evening of the very same day, was almost 
Mithout a stream. Hence 1 conclude that this distinguished fea- 
ture in the vale of Kesv\ ick, is, like most noithern rivers, only in 
high beauty duiing bad weather. But his greattst loss was in not 
seeing a small water-fall visible only through the window of a 
ruined summer-house in sjr Micliael's orf.hard. Here Nature has 
jierfonned every thing in little that she usually execi tts on her 
largest"^ scale ; and on that account, like the miniature painter, 
seems to have finished every part of it in a studied maimer ; not a 
little fragment of rock thrown into the basin, not a single stem of 
brushwood that starts from its ciaggy sides but has its picturL-sque 
meaning : and the little central stream dashing down a cleft ot the 
darkest-coloured stone, i^roduces an eftett of light and sii;idow 
becutiful beyond dtscriptioji. This little theatrical scene might 
be painted as large as the original, on a canvass not bigger than 
those which are usually dropped in the Opera-house. 



199 

bling the course of some vast and magnifi- 
cent river; but no flat marshy grounds, no 
osier-beds, or patches of scrubby plantations 
on its banks: at the head two valleys open 
among the mountains; one, that by which 
we came down, the other Langsledale, in 
which Wry-nose and Hard-knot, two great 
mountains, rise above the rest: from thence 
the fells visibly sink, and soften along its 
sides; sometimes they run into it (but with 
a gentle declivity) in their own dark and 
natural complexion: oftener they are green 
and cultivated, with farms interspersed, and 
round eminences, on the border covered 
with trees: towards the south, it seemed to 
break into larger bays, with several islands 
and a wider extent of cultivation. The way 
rises continually, till at a place called Orrest- 
head, it turns south-east, losing sight of the 
water. 

Passed by Ing's-Chapel and Staveley, but 
I can say no farther; for the dusk of even- 
ing coming on, I entered Kendal almost in 
the dark, and could distinguish only a 
shadow of the castle on a hill, and tenter- 
grounds spread far and wide round the town, 
which I mistook for houses. My inn prom- 
ised sadl}', having two wooden galleries, like 
Scotland, in front of it: it was indeed an old 



200 GRAV'S LETTERS. 

ill-contrived house, but kept by civil sensi- 
ble people; so I stayed two nights nith 
them, and fared and slept very comfortably. 
Oct. 9. The air mild as summer, all corn 
off the ground, and the sky-larks singing 
aloud (by the way, I saw not one at Kes- 
wick, perhaps because the place abounds in 
birds of prey). 1 went up the castle-hill; 
the town consists chietly of three nearly 
parallel streets, almost a mile long; except 
these, all the other houses seem as if they 
had been dancing a country-dance, and were 
out: there they stand back to back, corner 
to corner, some up hill, some down, without 
intent or meaning. Along by their side 
runs a fine brisk stream, over which are 
three stone bridges; the buildings, (a few 
comfortable houses excepted) are mean, of 
stone, and covered with a bad rough cast. 
Near the end of the town stands a hand- 
some house of colonel Wilson's, and adjoin- 
ing to it the church, a very large Gothic 
fabric, with a square tower; it has no par- 
ticular ornaments but double isles, and at 
the east-end four chapels or choirs; one of 
the Parrs, another of the Stricklands; the 
third is the proper choir of the church, and 
the fourth of the Bellinghams, a family now 
extinct. There is an altar-tomb of one of 



gray's letters. 201 

them dated 1577, with a flat brass, arms and 
quarterings; and in the window their arms 
alone, arg. a hunting-horn, sab. strung gules. 
In the Stricklands' chapel several modern 
monuments, and another old altar-torab, not 
belonging to the family: on the side of it a 
fess dancetty between ten billets, Deincourt. 
In the Parrs' chapel is a third altar tomb in 
the corner, no tigure or insf^ription, but on 
the side, cut in stone, an escutcheon of Ross 
of Kendal, (three water-budgets) quartering 
Parr (two bars in abordure engrailed); 2dly, 
an escutcheon, vaire, a fess for Marmion; 
3dly, an escutcheon, three chevronels 
braced, and a chief (which I take for Fitz- 
hugh): at the foot is an escutcheon, sur- 
rounded with the garter, bearing ^oos and 
Parr quarterly, quartering the other two 
before-mentioned. I have no books to look 
in, therefore cannot say v/hether this is the 
Lord Parr of Kendal, queen Catharine's 
father, or her brother the marquis of North- 
ampton: perhaps it is a cenotaph for the lat- 
ter, who was buried at Warwick in 1571. 
The remains of the castle are seated on a 
fine hill on the side of the river opposite the 
town; almost the whole enclosure of the 
walls remains, with four towers, two square 
and two round, but their upper part and em- 



202 gray's letters. 

battlements are demolished; it is of rough 
stone and cement, without any ornament or 
arms, round, enclosing a court of like form, 
and surrounded by a moat; nor ever could 
it have been larger than it is, for there are 
no traces of outworks There is a good 
view of the town and river, with a fertile 
open valley through which it winds. 

After dinner I went along the Miltbrop 
turnpike, four miles, to see the falls, or 
force, of the river Kent; came to Sizergh, 
(pronounced Siser) and turned down a lane 
to the left. This seat of the Stricklands, an 
old Catholic family, is an ancient hall-house, 
with a very large tower embattled; the rest 
of the buildings added to it are of later date, 
but all is white, and seen to advantage on a 
back ground of old trees; there is a small 
park also well wooded. Opposite to this, 
turning to the left, I soon came to the river; 
it works its way in a narrow and deep rocky 
channel overhung with trees. The calm- 
ness and brightness of the evening, the roar 
of the waters, and the thumping of huge 
hammers at an iron-forge not far distant, 
made it a singular walk; but as to the falls, 
(for there are two) they are not four feet 
high. I went on, down to the forge, and 
saw the demons at work bv the light of their 



gray's letters. 203 

own fires: the iron is brought in pigs to Mil- 
throp by sea from SccUand, kc. and is here 
beat into bars and plates. Two miles fur- 
ther, at Lev ens, is ihe scat of loiu Suffolk, 
where he sometimes passes the summer: it 
was a favourite place of his late countess; 
but this I did not see. 

Oct. 10. I proceeded by Burton to Lan- 
caster, twenty-two miles: very good country, 
well enclosed and wooded, with some com- 
mon intersjiersed. Passed at the foot of 
Farlton-knot, a high fell four miles north of 
Lancaster; on a~ rising ground called Botrlton 
(pronounced Bouton) we had a full view of 
Carimell-sands, with here and there a pas- 
senger riding over them (it being low water): 
the points of Furness shooting far into the 
sea, and lofty mountains, partly covered 
with clouds, extending north of them. Lan- 
caster also appeared very conspicuous and 
fine; for its most distinguished features, the 
castle and church, mounted on a green emi- 
nence, were all that could be seen. Wo 
is me! when I got thither, it was the second 
day of their fair; the inn, in the principal 
street, was a great old gloomy house, full of 
people; but I found tolerable quarters, and 
even slept two nights in peace. 



204 gray's letters. 

In R fine afternoon I ascended the castle- 
hill; it trikes up the higher top of the emi- 
nence on which it stands, and is irregularly 
round, encompassed with a deep moat: in 
front, towards the town, is a magnificent 
Gothic gateway, lofty and huge; the^ver- 
han<j:ing battlements are supportei^by a 
triple range of corbels, the intervals pierced 
through, and showing the day from above. 
On its top rise light watch-towers of small 
height. It opens below with a grand point- 
ed arch: over this is a wTought tabernacle, 
doubtless once containing its founder's figure; 
on one side a shield of France acmi-quar- 
tered with England; on the other '♦he same^, 
with a label, ermine, for John of Gaunt, duke 
of Lancaster. This opens to a court with- 
in, which 1 did not much care to enter, be- 
ing the county-gaol, and full of prisoners, 
both criminols and debtors. From this gate- 
way the walls continue and join it to a vast 
square tower of great height, the lower 
part at least of remote antiijuity; for it has 
small round-headed lights with plain short 
pillars on each side of them: tiiere is a third 
tower, also square and of less dimensions. 
This is all the castle. Near it, and but 
little lower, sta-yi^i^ the church, a large and 
plain Gothic fabriv , the high square tower 



gray's letters. 2©5 

at the we3t end has been rebuilt of late 
years, but nearly in the same st3'le: there 
are no ornaments of arms > &c. any where to 
be seen; nithin, it is lightsome and spacious, 
but not one monument of antiquity, or piece 
of painted glass, is left. From the church- 
yard there is an extensive sea-view, (for 
now the tide had almost covered the sands, 
and tilled the river) and besides the greatest 
part of Furness, 1 could distinguish Peel- 
castle on the isle of Fowdrey, which lies off 
its southeifo extremity. The town is built 
on the slo^ and at the foot of the castle- 
hill, mor^i^n twice the bigness of Auk- 
land, witlimiLtny neat buildings of white stone, 
but a little disorderly in their position, and, 
*'ad Hbitum," like Kendal: many also ex- 
tend below on the keys by the river- side, 
where a number of ships were moored, 
some of them three-masted vessels decked 
out with their colours in honour of the fair. 
Here is a good bridge of four arches ovej- 
the Lune, that runs, when the tide is out, 
in two streams divided by a bed of graveJ, 
which is not covered but in spring-tides; 
below the town it widens to near the breadth 
of the Thames at London, and meets the sea 
at five or six miles distance to. south-west. 



206 gray's letters. 

Oct. 11. I crossed the river and walked 
over a peninsula, three niiles, to the village 
of Pooton, which stands on the beach. An 
old fisherman mending his nets (while 1 in- 
quired about the danger of passing those 
sands) told me, in his dialect, a moving story; 
how a brother of the trade, a cockier, as he 
styled him, driving a little cart with two 
daughters (women grown) in it, and his wife 
on horseback following, ^ei out one day to 
pass the seven-mile sands, as they had fre- 
quently been used to do, (for no body in the 
village knew them better than the old man 
did); when they were about halfway over, a 
thick fog rose, and as they advanced they 
found the water much deeper than they ex- 
pected: the old man was puzzled; he stop- 
ped, and said he would go a little way to find 
some mark he was acquainted with; they 
stayed awhile for him, but in vain; they 
called aloud, but no reply: at last the young 
women pressed their mother to think where 
they were, and go on; she would not leave 
the place; but wandered about forlorn aiid 
amazed; she would not quit her horse and 
get into the cart with them: they determin- 
ed, after much time wasted, to turn back, 
and give themselves up to the guidance of 
their horses. The old woman was soon 



gray's letters. 207 

washed off, and perished; the poor girls 
clung close to their cart, and the horse, 
sometimes wading and sometimes swimming, 
brought them back to land alive, but sense- 
less with tenor and distress, and unable for 
many dajs to give any account of themselves. 
The bodies of their parents were found next 
ebb; that of the father a very few paces dis- 
tant from the spot where he had left them. 

In the afternoon I wandered about the 
town, and by the key, till it grew dark. 

Oct. 12. I set out for Settle by a fine 
turnpike-road, twenty-nine miles, through a 
rich and beautiful enclosed country, diversi- 
fied with frequent villages and churches, 
very unequal ground; and on the left the 
river Lune winding in a deep vallej', its 
hanging banks clothed with fine woods, 
through which you catch long reaches of 
the water, as the road winds about at a con- 
siderable height above it. In the most pic- 
turesque part of the way, I passed the park 
belonging to Ihe Hon. Mr. Clifford, a Catho- 
lic. The grounds between him and the 
river are indeed charming;* the house is 

• This scene opens just thi-ee miles from Lancaster, on what is 
called the Queen's Road. To see the view in perfection, you riust 
go into a field on the left. Here Ingleborough, behind a rai'iety 
of lesser luouBtains, makes the back-ground of the prospect : on 



208 gray's letters. 

ordinary, and the park nothing but a rocky 
fell scattered over with ancient hawthorns. 
Next I came to Hornby, a little town on the 
river Wanning, over which a handsome 
bridge is now building; the castle, in a 
lordly situation, attracted me, so I walked up 
the hill to it: first presents itself a large 
white ordinary sashed gentlem-^n's house, 
and behind it rises the ancient Keep, built 
by Edward Stanley, lord Monteagle. He 
died about 1523, in King Henry the Eighth's 
time. It is now only a shell, the rafters 
are laid within it as for flooring. 1 went up 
a winding stone-stair-case in one corner to 
the leads, and at the angle is a single hexa- 
gon watch-tower, rising some feet higher, 
fitted up in the taste of a modern summer- 
house, with sash-windows in gilt frames, 
a stucco cupola, and on the top a vast gilt 
eagle, built by Mr. Charteris, the present 
possessor. He is the second son of the 
earl of Wemvs, brother to the lord Elcho, 

each hand of the middle distance, rise two sloping hilh ; the left 
clothed with thick woods, the right with variegated rock and hec- 
\)age : between them, in the most futile of valleys, the Lune ser- 
pentizes for many a mile, and comts forth ample and clear, 
through a well-wixnled and richly pastured fore-ground. Every 
feature, which constitutes a perfect landscapt of the extensive sort' 
*s here not only boldly marked, but also in its best |H>sition. 



gray's letters. 209 

and grandson to colonel Charteris, whose 
name he bears. 

From the leads of the tower there is a 
tme view of the country round, and much 
wood near the castle. Ingleborough, which 
I had seen before distinctly at Lancaster to 
nortb-east, wasnow completely wrapped in 
clouds, all but its summit; which might have 
been easily mistaken for a long black cloud 
too, fraught with an approaching storm. 
Now our road began gradually to mount 
towards the Apennine, the trees growing 
less and thinner of leaves, till we came to 
Ingleton, eighteen miles; it is a pretty vil- 
lage, situated very high, and yet in a valley 
at the foot of that huge monster of nature, 
Ingleborough: two torrents cross it, with 
great stones rolled along their beds instead 
of water; and over them are flung two hand- 
some arches. The nipping air, though the 
afternoon was growing \ery bright, now 
taught us we were in Craven; the road was 
all up and down, though no where very 
steep; to the left were mountain-tops, to the 
right a wide valley, all enclosed ground, and 
beyond it high hills again. In approaching 
Settle, the crags on the left drew nearer to 
our way, till we descended Brunton-brow 
into a cheerful valley (though thin of trees) 

VOL. IV. • 30 



210 

to Giggleswick, a village with a small piece 
cf water by its side, covered over with 
coots; near it a church, which belongs also 
to Settle; and half a mile farther, having 
passed the Kibble over a bridge, I arrived 
there; it is a small market-town standing 
directly under a rocky fell; there are not in 
it above a dozen good-looking houses; the 
rest are old and low, with little wooden por- 
ticos in front. My inn pleased me much, 
(though small) for the neatness and civility 
of the good woman that kept it; so I lay 
there two nights, and went, 

Oct. 13. To visit Gordale-scar, which lay 
six miles from Settle; but that way was di- 
rectly over a fell, and as the weather was 
not to be depended on, I went round in a 
chaise, the only way one could get near it 
in a carriage, which made it full thirteen 
miles, half of it such a road ! but I got safe 
over it, so there's an end, and came to Mal- 
ham (pronounced Maum) a village in the 
bosom of the mountains, seated in a wild and 
dreary valley. — From thence 1 was to walk 
a mile over very rough ground, a torrent 
rattling along on the left hand; on the cliffs 
above hung a few goats; one of them danced 
and scratched an ear with its hind foot in a 
place where 1 would not have stood stock- 
still 



gray's letters. 211 

For all beneath the moon. 

As I advanced, the crags seemed to close in, 
but discovered a narrow entrance turning to 
the left between them: 1 followed my guide 
a few paces, and the hills opened again into 
no large space; and then all farther way is 
barred by a stream that, at the height of 
about fifty feet, gushes from a hole in the 
rock, and spreading in large sheets over its 
broken front, dashes from steep to steep, 
and then rattles away in a torrent down the 
valley: the rock on the left rises perpen- 
dicular, with stubbed yew-trees and shrubs 
staring from its side, to the height of at least 
300 feet; but these are not the thing: it is 
the rock to the right, under which you stand 
to see the fall, that forms the principal hor- 
ror of the place. From its very base it be- 
gins to slope forwards over you in one block 
or solid mass without any crevice in its sur- 
face, and overshadows half the area below 
with its dreadful canopy; when 1 stood at (1 
believe) four yards distance from its foot, 
the drops, which perpetually distil from its 
brow, fell on my head; and in one part of 
its top, more exposed to the weather, there 
are loose stones that hang in air, and threa- 
ten visibly some idle spectator with instant 



212 GRAY 'a LETTERS. 

destruction; it is safer to shelter yourself 
close to its bottom, and trust to the mercy of 
that enormous mass which nothing but an 
earthquake can stir. The gloomy uncom- 
fortable day well suited the savage aspect of 
the place, and made it still more formidable: 
I stayed there, not without shuddering, a 
quarter- of an hour, and thought my trouble 
richly paid; for the impression will last for 
life. At the ale-house where 1 dined in 
Malham, Vivares, the landscape-painter, had 
lodged for a week or more; Smith and Bel- 
lers had also been there, and tv*o prints of 
Gordale have been engraved by them. 

Oct. 14. Leaving my comfortable inn, to 
which I had returned from Gordale, I set 
out for Skipton, sixteen miles. From 
several parts of the road, and in many places 
about Settle, I saw at once the three famous 
hills of this country, Ingleborough, Peni- 
gent, and Pendle; the first is esteemed the 
highest, and their features not to be describ- 
ed, but by the pencil.* 

* Without the pencil nothing indeed is to be described with pre- 
cision ; and even then that pencil ought to be in the very hand of 
the writei-, ready to supply ^vilh om lines every thing that his pen 
c annot express by words. As far as language can describe, Mr. 
Gray lias, I think, pushed its powers : for rejecting, as I before 
hinted, every general unmeaning and hyperbolical phi-ase, he has 



grab's letters. 213 

Craven, after all, is an unpleasing country 
when seen from a height; its valleys are 

selected (both iu this jonnial, and on other similar occasions) the 
plainest, simplest, and most direct terms : yt't notwithstanding his 
judicious cai-e in the use of tliese, I must own I feel tliern defec? 
tive. Tliey present nie, it is true, with a picture of the same 
species, but not witli the identical picture : ray imagination re- 
ceives clear anddistiuct, but not tnie and exact images. It may 
be asked then , why am I entertainetl by well-written descnptions ? 
I answer, because they amuse ^^hen they do not inform meymid 
because, after I have seen the places described they f^erve to recall 
to my memoi-y the original scene, almost as well as the truest 
drawing or picture. In the mean while, my mind is flattered by 
thinking it has acquired some conception of the place, and rests 
contented in an innocent error, which nothing but ocular proof can 
detect, and wh^ch, when detected, does not diminish the pleasure I 
had before received, but augments it by superadding the charms of 
comparison and verification; and herein I would place the rc«l 
and only merit of verlial prose description. To speak of poetical, 
would lead me beyond the limits as well as the purpose of this note. 
I cannot, however, helj) adding, (hat I have seen one piece of ver- 
bal description which corajjletely satisfies me, because it is 
throughout assisted by masterly delineation. It is composed by 
the Rev. Mr. Gilpin, of Cheam in Surrey ; and contains, amongst 
other places, an account of the very scenes wliich, in this tour, our 
author visited. This gentleman., possessing the conjoined talent 
ofa writer and a designer, has employed them in this manuscript 
to every purpose of picturesque beauty, in the description of 
which, a eonvct eye. a practised pencil, and an eloqu«it ptn could 
assist liiJTi He has. consequently, pr6ducetl a work vnique in its 
kind. But I have said it is in manuscript, and i am afraid, likely 
to continue so ; for would his modv-sty pennit him to print it, the 
great expense of iilates would make its publication almost impmc 
ticable. 



214 gray's letters. 

chiefly wide, and either marshy or enclosed 
pasture, with a few trees. Numbers of 
black cattle are fatted here, both of the 
Scotch breed, and a larger sort of oxen with 
great horns. There is little cultivated 
ground, except a few oats. 

Skipton, to which I went through Long- 
Preston and Gargrave, is a pretty large 
market-town, in a valley, with one very 
broad street gently sloping downwards from 
the castle, which stands at the head of it. 
This is one of our good countess''s build- 
ings,* but on old foundations; it is not very 
large, but of a handsome antique appearance, 
with round towers, a grand gateway, bridge, 
and moat, surrounded by many old trees. It is 
in good repair and kept up as a habitation of 
the earl of Thanet, though he rarely comes 
thither: what with the sleet, and a foolish 
dispute about chaises, that delayed me, I did 
not see the hiside of it, but went on fifteen 
miles, to Otley; first up Shode-bank, the 
steepest hill I ever saw a road carried over 
in England, for it mounts in a strait line 
(without any other repose for the horses 
than by placing stones every now and then 
behind the wheels) for a full mile; then the 

* Anne countess of Pembroke and Montgomery. 



gray's letters. 215 

road goes on a level along the brow of this 
high hill over Rumbald-moor, till itgreatly de- 
scends into Wharldale, so they call the vale 
of the wharf; and a beautiful vale it is, well 
wooded, well cultivated, well inhabited, but 
with high crags at a distance, that border the 
green country on either hand; through the 
midst of it, deep, clear, full to the brink, and 
of no inconsiderable breadth, runs in long 
windings the river How it comes to pass 
that it should be so fine and copious a stream 
here, and at Tadcaster (so much lower) 
should have nothing but a wide stony chan- 
nel without water, I cannot tell you. I 
passed through Long Addingham, llkeley 
(pronounced Eecly) distinguished by a lofty 
brow of loose rocks to the right: Burley, a 
neat and pretty village, among trees on the 
opposite side of the river lay Middleton- 
Lodge, belonging to a Catholic gentleman 
of that name; Weston, a venerable stone 
fabric, with large offices, of Mr. Vavasour, 
the meadows in front gently descending to 
the water, and behind ^a great and shady 
wood; Farley (Mr. Fawkes's) a place like 
the last, but larger, and rising higher on the 
side of the hill. Otley is a large airy town, 
with clean but low rustic buildings, and a 
bridge over the wharf; I went into its spa- 



216 quay's letters. 

cious Gothic church which has been new- 
roofed, with a flat stucco-ceiling ; in the 
corner of it is the monument of Thomas 
lord Fairfax, and Helen Aske, his lady, de- 
scended from the Cliifords and Latimers, as 
her epitaph says; the figures, not ill-cut, 
(particularly his in armour, but bareheaded) 
lie on the tomb. 1 take them to be the 
narents of the famous sir Thomas Fairfax. 



CXLV. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

April 18, 1770. 

i HAVE utterly forgot where my journal left 
off, but 1 think it was after the account of 
Gordale near Settle; if so, there was little 
more worth your notice: the principal things 
were Wharldale, in the way from Skipton to 
Otley, and Kirkstall abbey, three miles from 
Leeds * * * *|. Kirkstall is a noble ruin in 
the semi-saxon style of building, as old as 
King Stephen, towards the end of his reign, 
1152. The whole church is still standing, 

t Here a paragraph, desev'bjng AVharldale in the foregoing jour- 
nalj T,as repeated. 



gray's letters. 217 

the roof excepted, seated in a delicious quiet 
valley, on the banks of the river Aire, and 
preserved with religious reverence by the 
duke of Montagu. Adjoining to the church, 
between that and the river, are variety of 
chapels and remnants of the abbey, shatter- 
ed by the encroachments of the ivy, and 
surrounded by many a sturdy tree, whose 
twisted roots break through the fret of the 
vaulting, and hang streaming from the roofs. 
The gloom of these ancient cells, the shade and 
verdure of the landscape, the glittering and 
murmur of the stream, the lofty towers, and 
long perspectives of the church, in the 
midst of a clear bright day, detained me for 
many hours, and were the truest objects for 
my glass I have yet met with any where. 
As I lay at that smoky, ugly, busy town of 
Leeds, I dropped all further thoughts of my 
journal; and after passing two days at Ma- 
son's (though he was absent) pursued my 
way by Nottingham, Leicester, Harborough, 
Kettering, Thrapston, and Huntingdon, to 
Cambridge, where I arrived on the 22d of 
October, having met with no rain to signify 
till this last day of my journey. There's 
luck for you! 

I do think of seeing Wales this summer, 
having never found my spirits lower than at 



218 gray's letters. 

present, and feeling that motion and change 
of the scene is absolutely necessary to me; I 
will make Aston in my way to Chester, and 
shall rejoice to meet you there the last week 
in May. Mason writes me word that he 
wishes it; and though his old house is down, 
and his new one not- up, proposes to re- 
ceive us like princes in grain. 



CXLVI. 

TO MR. NICHOLLS.* 

I RECEIVED your letter at Southampton; and 
as I would wish to treat every l^ody accord- 
ing to their own rule and measure of gooil 
breedings have, against my inclination, waited 
till now before I answered it, purely out of 
fear and respect, and an ingenuous diffidence 
of my own abilities, if you will not take 
this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well- 
turned period, which is always my principal 
concern. 

* This letter was written the 19th of November, 1764 ; but as it 
delineates another abbey, in a different manner, it seems to make 
no improper companion to that which precedes it. 



gray's letters. 219 

So I proceed to tell you that my health is 
much improved by the sea: not that I drank 
it, or bathed in it, as the common people do: 
no! I only walked by it and looked upon it. 
The climate is remarkably mild, even in Oc- 
tober and November; no snow has been 
seen to lie there for these thirt}^ years past; 
the myrtles grow in the ground against the 
houses, and Guernsey lilies bloom in every 
window: the town, clean and well-built, sur- 
rounded by its old stone walls, with their 
towers and gateways, stands at the point of a 
peninsula, and opens full south to an arm of 
the sea, whi:h, having formed two beautiful 
bays on each hand of it, stretches away in 
direct view, till it joins the British channel; 
it is skirted on either side with gently rising- 
groimds, clothed with thick wood, and di- 
rectly cross its mouth rise the high knds of 
the Isle of White at a distance, but distinctly 
seen. In the bosom of the woods (conceal- 
ed from profane eyes) lie hid the ruins of Net- 
tely abbey; there may be richer and greater 
houses of religion, but the abbot is content 
with his situation. See there, at the top of 
that hanging mnadow, under the shade of 
those old trees that bend into a half circle 
about it, he is walking slowly (good mani) 
and telling his beajs for the souls of his be' 



220 gray's letters. 

nefactors, interred in that venerable pile that 
lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadows 
still descending) nods a thicket of oaks that 
mask the building, and have excluded a view 
too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye; only 
on either hand they leave an opening to the 
blue glittering sea. Did you not observe 
how, as that white sail shot by and was lost, 
he turned and crossed himself to drive the 
tempter from him that had thrown that dis- 
traction in his wav? I should tell you that the 
ferryman who rowed me, a lusty young fel- 
low, told me that he would not for all the 
world pass a night at the abbey (there were 
such things seen near it) though there was a 
power of money hid there. From thence I 
vreut to Salisbury, Wilton, and Stonehenge: 
but of these things 1 say no more, they will 
be published at the University press. 

P. S. I must not close my letter without 
giving you one principal event of my history; 
which was, that, (in the course of my late 
tour) I set out one morning before five 
o'clock, the moon shining through a dark 
and misty autumnal air, and got to the sea- 
coast time enough to be at the sun's levee. 
I saw the clouds and dark vapours open gra- 
dually to right and left, rolling over one 



gray's letters. 221 

another in great smoky wreaths, and the tide 
(as it flowed gently in upon the sands) tirst 
whitening, then slightly tinged with g()]d and 
blue; and all at once a little line of insuf- 
ferable brightness that (before 1 "can write 
these tive words) was grown to half an orb, 
and now to a whole one, too glorious to be 
distinctly seen * It is very odd it makes no 
figure on paper; yet I shall remember it as 
long as the sun, or at least as long as I en- 
dure. I wonder whether any body ever saw 
it before? I hardly believe it. 



CXLVII. 



TO MR. BEATTIE. 

Pembroke-Hall, July 2, 1770. 

1 REJOICE to hear that you are restored to 
better state of health, to your books, and to 
your muse once again. That forced dis* 

* This puts me in miBd of a similar description written by Dr. 
Jeremy Taylor, which I shall here beg leave to present to the read- 
er, who will find by it that the old divine had occaiionallj as 
much power of desci-iption as even our modem poet " As when 
the sun approaches towards tlie gates of the morning, he first 
opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the spirits of dark- 
ness ; gives light to the cock, and calls up the l^k to mat- 
tins ; and by and by g^lds the fringes of a cloud, aad j)eeps 



X.'^^ GRAY S LETTERS. 

sipation and exercise we are obliged to % 
to as a remed}', nht n this frail mRchine goes 
wrong, is often almost as bad as the distem- 
per we would cure; yet I too have been 
constrained of ];ite to pursue a like regimen, 
on account of certain pains in the head (a 
sensation unknown to me before) and of 
great dejection of spirits. This, sir, is the 
only excuse I have to make you for my long 
silence, and not (as perhaps you may nave 
figured to yourself) any secret reluctance I 
had to tell you my mind concerning the spe- 
cimen you so kindly sent me of your new 
poem:* on the contrary, if I had seen any- 
thing of importance to disapprove, I should 
have hastened to inform you, and never doubt- 
ed of being forgiven. The truth is, I greatly 
like all 1 have seen, and wish to see more. 
The design is simple, and pregnant with poe- 
tical ideas of various kinds, yet seems some- 
how imperfect at the end. Why may notyoung 
Edwin, when necessity has driven him to 

over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns * * • } 
and still (while a man tells the story) the sun gets up higher till 
he shows a fair face and a full light." J. Taylor's Holy Dy. 
ing, p. 17. 

• This letter was written in answer to one that enclosed only a 
part of the first book of the Mi.istrel in manuscript, and I belierc 
a sketch of Mr> Beattie's plan for the whole. 



gray's letters. 223 

take up the harp, and assume the profes- 
sion of a minstrel, do some great and sin- 
gular service to his country? (what service 
I must leave to your invention) such as no 
general, no statesman, no moralist, could do 
without the aid of music, inspiration, and 
poetr}'. This will not appear an improba- 
bility in those early times, and in a cha- 
racter then held sacred, and respected by 
all nations: besides, it will be a full answer 
to all the hermit has said, when he dissuaded 
him from cultivating these pleasing arts; it 
will show their use, and make the best pane- 
gyric of our favourite and celestial science. 
And lastly, (what weighs most with me) it 
will throw more of action, pathos, and inte- 
rest into your design, which already abounds 
in reflection and sentiment. As to descrip- 
tion, I have always thought that it made the 
most graceful ornament of poetry, but never 
ought to make the subject. Your ideas are 
new, and borrowed from a mountainous 
country; the only one that can furnish 
truly picturesque scenery. Some trifles in 
the language or versitication you will permit 
me to remark. * * * 

I will not enter at present into the merits 
of your Essai/ on Truths because I have 
not yet given it all the attention it deserves, 



2^4 gray's letters. 

though I have read it through with pleasure; 
besides, I am partial; for I have always 
thought David Hume a pernicious writer, 
and believe he has done as much mischief 
here as he has in his own country. A turbid 
and shallow stream often appears to our ap- 
prehensions very deep. A professed scep- 
tic can be guided by nothing but his present 
passions (if he has any) and interests; and 
to be masters of his philosophy we need 
not his books or advice, for every child is 
capable of the same thing, without any 
^tudy at all. Is not that naivcie aiid good 
humour, which his admirers celebrate in 
him, owing to this, that he has continued 
all his days an infant, but one that unhappily 
has been taught to read and w^ite? That 
childish nation, the French, have given him 
vogue and fashion, and we, as usual, have 
learned from them to admire him at second- 
hand.* 

* On a similar subject Mr. Gray expresses himself thus in a let- 
ter to Mr. Walpole, dated March 17, 1771 : "He must lia^e a very 
good stomach that can digest the Crambe recocta of Voltaire. Athe- 
ism is a vile dish, though all the cooks of France combine to make 
new sauces to it. As to the soul, perhaps they may have none on 
the continent ; but I do think we have such things in England. 
Shalispeare, for example, I believe had several to his own share. 
As to the Jews (tliough they do not eat pork) I like them because 
they are better Christians tlian Voltaire." This was written only 



gray's letters. 225 



CXLVIII. 

TO MR. NICHOLLS. 

Pembroke-Hall, Jan. 26, 1771. 

I REJOICE you have met with Froissard, he is 
the Herodotus of a barbarous age; had he 
but had the luck of writing in as good a lan- 
guage, he might,have been immortal! His 
locomotive disposition, (for then there was 
no other way of learning things) his simple 
curiosity, his religious credulity, were much 

three months befoiie lus death ; and I insert it to show how constant 
and uniform he was in his contempt of infidel writers. Dr. Beat- 
tic received only one letter more from his coirespondent, dated 
March 8, 1771. It related to the first book of the Minstrel, now 
sent to him in print, and contained criticisms on particular passa- 
ges, and commendations of particular stanzas. Those criticisms 
the author attended to in a future edition, because his good taste 
found that they deserved his attention ; the passages therefore be- 
ing altered, the strictures die of course. As to the notes of 
commendation, tlie poem itself abounds with so many 
striking beauties, that they neetl not even the hand of Mr. Gray to 
point them out to a reader of any feeling : all therefore that I 
shall print of that letter, is the concluding paragraph relating to 
his Essay on the Immutability of Truth. " I am happy to hear of 
your success in another way, because I think you are serving the. 
cause of human nature, and the true interests of mankind ; your 
'wok is read here too, and with just applause." 
VOL. IV. 31 



226 gray's letters. 

like those of the old Grecian.* When you 
have tant chcvauche, as to get to the end of 
him, there is Monstrelet waits to take you 
up, and will set you down at Philip de Co- 
mines; but previous to all these, you should 
have read Villehardouin and Joinville. I do 
not think myself bound to defend the charac- 
ter of even the best of kings :t pray slash 
them all and spare not. 

It would be strange too if I should blame 
your Greek studies, or find fault with you 
for reading Isocrates; I did so myself twenty 
years ago, and in an edition at least as bad as 
yours. The Panegyric, the de Pace, Areo- 
pagitic, and Advice to Philip, are by far the 
noblest remains we have of this writer, and 
equal to most things extant in the Greek 
tongue; but it depends on your judgment to 
distinguish between his real and occasional 
opinion of things, as he directly contradicts 
in one place what he has advanced in ano- 
ther: for example, in the Panathenaic, and 
the de Pace, &c. on the naval power of 
Athens; the latter of the two is undoubtedly 
his own undisguised sentiment. 

*, See more of his opinion of this author, Letter CVII. 
1 1 suppose his coirespondent had uj^tde some strictures on the 
character of Henry IV. •£ France. 



gray's letters. 227 

I would by all means wish you to comply 
Avith your friend's request, and write the let- 
ter he desires. I trust to the cause and to 
the warmth of 3^our own kindness for inspi- 
ration. Write eloquently, that is from 
your heart, in such expressions as that will 
furnish * Men sometimes catch that feeling 
from a stranger which should have originally 
sprung from their own heart. 



CXLIX. 

TO DR. WHARTON. 

:May 24, 1771. 

My last summer's tour was through Worces- 
tershire, Gloucestershire, Monmouthshire, 
Herefordshire, and Shropshire, five of the 
most beautiful counties in the kingdom. The 

* This short sentence contains a complete definition of natiu-al 
eloquence : when it beconies an art it requires one rnoiv prolix, and 
our author seems to have begun to sketch it on a detached paper. 
*' Its province (says he) is to reign over minds of slow perception 
and little imagination, to set things in lights they never saw them 
in ; to engage their attention by details and circumstances gradually 
unfoldvd, to adorn and heighten them with images and colours un- 
known to them, and to ifjise and engage their rude passions to tbe 
point t« which the speaker wishes to bring them." * * ♦ 



5*28 GRAY S LETTERS, 

very principal light and capital feature oi'mv 
journey was the river Wye, which 1 descend- 
ed in a boat for near forty miles from Ross to 
Chepstow. Its banks are a succession of 
nameless beauties; one out of many you may 
see not ill described by Mr. Whately, in his 
observations on gardening, under the name 
of the New-Weir; he has also touched 
upon two others, Tinterne Abbey and Pers- 
field, both of them famous scenes, and 
both on the Wye. Monmouth, a town I 
never heard mentioned, lies on the same 
river, in a vale that is the delight of my 
eyes, and the very seat of pleasure. The 
vale of Abergavenny, Ragland, and Chepstovr 
castles; Ludlow, Mah ern-hills, Hampton- 
court, near Lemster; the Leasowes, Hagley, 
the three cities and their cathedrals; and 
lastly Oxford (where I passed two days on 
my return with great satisfaction) were the 
rest of my acquisitions, and no bad harvest 
in my opinion; but I made no journal myself, 
else you should have had it: I have indeed 
a short one written by the companion of my 
travels,* that serves to recall and fix the 
fleeting images of these things. 

I have had a cough upon me these three 
months, which is incurable. The approach- 

* :Mr. NicUolls. 



fray's letters. 229 

ing summer I have sometimes had thoughts 
of spending on the continent; but I have 
now dropped that intention, and believe my 
expeditions will terminate in Old Park: but 
I make no promise, and can answer for 
nothing; my own employment so sticks in 
my stomach, and troubles my conscience: 
and yet travel I must, or cease to exist. 
Till this year 1 hardly knew what (mecha- 
nical) lo.w spirits were, but now I even trem- 
ble at an. east wind. 



The gout, which he always believed heiieditary in his constitu- 
tion, (for both h\s parents died of thiit distemper) had now f<x 
several years attacked him in a weakly and unfixed manner ; and 
the great temperance which he observed, particularly in regard to 
his drinking, served, perhaps, to prevent any severe paroxysm, but 
by no means eradicated the constitutional malady. In the lattei' 
end of May, 1771, just about the time he wrote the last letter, he 
removed to London, where he became feverish, and his dejection of 
spirits increased : the weather being then very sultrv, our com- 
mon friend. Dr. Gisbome, advised him. for an opener ad freer air, 
to rtivove from his lodgings in Jermyn-street to Kensington, where 
he frequently attended him, and where Mr. Gray so far g»t the 
better of his disorder, as to be able to return to Can bridge ; meaning 
from thence to set out very soon for Old Park, in hopes that travel- 
ling, from which he usually received so much benefit, would com- 
plete his cuie : but on the 24th of July, while at dinner in the col- 
lege hail, he felt a sudden nausea, which obliged him to rise from 
table and retire to his chamber. This co; tinned to inerease, and 
nething staying sn his stomach, he sent for his friend Dr. Gly», 



2S0 

■vho finding it to be the gout in tbat part, thought his ease dange. 
rous, aiid called in Dr. Plumptree, the physical professor : they 
prescribtd to hiji) the usual coi^iah given in tliat distemper, but 
without any good effect ; for on the 29th he was seized with a 
strong couTulsion fit, which, on the 30th, returned m ith increased 
violtnce. and on the next evening he expired. He was sensible at 
times almost to the last, and from the first aware of his extreme 
da^iger ; but expi-essed no visible concern at the thoughts of his ap- 
proaching dissolution. 

This account I draw up from the letters which Dr Brown, then 
on the spot, wrote to me during his short illness ; and as I felt 
strongly at the time what Tacitus has so well exprsssed on a similar 
occasion, I may. with propriety, use his words: "^Mihi, praeter 
acerbitatem amici erepti, auget mcestitiani, quod assidere valetu- 
dini. fovere deficientem, satiari vultii, complexu, non contigit." I 
Was then on the eastern side of Yorkshire at a distance from the 
direct p«st, ard therefore did not receive the melancholy intelli- 
gence soon enough to be able to reach Cambridge before his corpse 
had been catried to tht place he had, by will, appointed for its in- 
terment. To see the last rights duly performed, therefore, fell to 
the lot of Dr 'Brown ; I had only to join him, on his return from 
the funeral, in executing the other trusts which his friendship had 
authorized us jointly to perfu-m. 



INDEX. 



No. 
LXXXVII. 

LXXXVIII. 



LXXXIX. 



Page 



xc. 

XCI. 
XCII. 
XCIII. 

XCIV. 
XCV. 

XCVI. 
XCVTI. 
XCVIII. 



To Dr. Wharton.— On Strawberry-Hill.— Occa- 
sio.ial rciiisu-ks on Goiliic arcliitecture 

To Dr. Wharton — Ob|ecti»ii to publishing bis 
Ode on the progn ss of Poetry singly. — Hint 
of liis having other lyrical ideas by him un- 
tinishtd - . - . . 

To Mr Sto iliewer.— Of Monsi?nor Baiardi's 
booK coiictniiug H rcuianeuni. — A poem of 
Voltitire —Encloses a jiart of his ode*entitled 
the Bard - - - - 

To Dr. Wharton. — On his removing from Pe- 
ter-House to p. mi'roke-Hall.-His notion of 
a LondoM hospital— Of Sully's iVfenioirs. — 
Mason's four odes .... 

To Dr. AVhurton — Of his own ui-lolence —Me- 
moirs of M de la Porte and of Madame Staal. 
— I.'iteniion of eommg to town 

To Mr. Mason.— Of his «e\iew;-r'«,— Offers to 
send iiirn Druid cal anecdotes for uis project- 
ed drama of Caractacus - - . 

To Mr. M son -On hearing PaiTj- play on the 
Wehh hurp. and finishing his ode after it. — 
Account of the old !iailad on which the tra- 
gedy of Douglas was founded - 

To Mr. Walpole.— Kxprcs es his aversion to 
notes accompanying his Bard 

To Mr. Walpole.— Inquiry into the genuine- 
ness «f an Ei-se |)oem called ' Hai-dicnute" 

To Mr. Walpole — (.'riticism of Rousseau's 
' Nouvelle Hcloise" - - . . 

To Mr Hunl -Oil the ill reception U\s two Pin- 
diu'ic odes met with on their puls^ication 

To Mr Mason - His opiuiou of the dramatic 
part «f Caractacus - - - . 



232 



No. Fage 

XCIX. To Mr. Mason.— Dissuading hini from retire- 
mejit — Advice coutciuing Caractacus.— Ciiti- 
ci-nis on his Eltgy wriiten in the garden of a 
friend —Refusal olthe office of Poct Laureat 33 
C. To Dr Whaiton.— Accouiit Oi his present em- 
ployment, ill making cut a list of places in 
England vorih Sireitg - - - S7 

CI. To Dr Whaitoii. — On the fore-mentioned list. 
— 1 ragtdy of Agis .— Various authors in the 
last voluines ol Dcdsity^ Miscellany. — Dr. 
Swift's Jbur last years of queen Anne - 39 

CII. To Mr. Stor.htwer.— On inlidtl writers and lord 

Shaftesbury - - - - - 41 

Stiictures on an impious position of lord Bo- 
lii.gbroke - - - - - 44 

CIII. To Dr Wharton.— On the death of his son, and 

an excuse for not writing aJi epitaph - - 49 

CIV. To Mr. Palgrave— Dcsirntg him to communi- 
cate the remarks he should make in his tour 
througli the north of Etiglai.d - - 52 

CV. To Mr Mason.— Some remarks on a second 

manuscript copy of Caractacus - - 53 

CVI. To Mr Palgrave —Description of Mr. Gray's 
pi-esent situation in town, and ol" his reading 
in the British Museum - - - 57 

CVII. To Dr. VVhai-'on— On employment.— Gardcn- 
ing.— Character of Froi&sjutl —King of Prus- 
sia's poLinv.- Tristram Shandy - - 59 
CVIII. To Mr. Stonhewer.- Oii tlie latter volumes of 

M. d'Aleml.ert and the Erse fragments - 63 
CIX. To Dr. Clai'ke.— His amusements witl» a party 
on the banks of the Thames. — Death of a 
Cambridge doctor,— More of the Erse frag* 
' ments - - - - - - 66 

ex. To Ml . Mason.— On two parodies of Mr Gray's 
and Mr. Mason's odts.— Extract of a letter 
from Mr David Hume, concerning the au- 
thenticity of the Erse poetrj - - 6S 
CXI. To Dr Wharton.- On bis employments in the 
country.— Nouvelle Heloise — Fingal .—Cha- 
racter of Mr. StiUingfl.ct - - - 73 
CXII. To Mr . Mason.— Moi-e concerning the Nouvelle 
H loise. — Of hiiguor Elisi, and other opera 
singirrs - - - - - - 7.'' 

CXIII. To Mr, Muson. — On his expectation of being: 
made a losidenviavy of York.— Recovery of 



INDEX. 



233 



No. Page 

lord • * • from a dangerous illness.— Reason 
for writing the Epitaph on sir William Wil- 
liams - - - - - - 78 

CXIV, To Mr. Walpole.— Remarks on Mr. Walpole's 

Anecdotes of Paiiuiug - - - 8© 

CXV. To Dr. Whai\ou.— .;e:.cription of Hard wick- 
Professor Tm-ner's Dc-aih —And of the peace 82 
CXVT. To Mr Mason —On count Algarotti's approtia- 
tiou of tiis and Mi-. Mason's poetry.— Gotbie 
arciiitecture —Plagiary in Helretius, fr»ra 

Eifnd,* 84 

CXVIL To >lr Biown.— Sending him a message to 
write to a gentleman abroad relatijig to count 
Algarotti, and recommending the Erse poems 93 
CXVIII. Count Algaiotti to Mr Gray.-Complimentary, 
and scalding iiiin some dissertations oi his 
own - - - - - - 95 

CXIX. To Dr Wharton.— On Rousseau sEmile - 96 

CXX. To Mr. How.— On receiving three of Count 

Algi.rotti's Treatises, and hinting an error 

which that author had fallen into, with re- 

gai-d to the English tisste of gardening - 98 

CXXI. To Mr. Walpole.— Ludicrous remarks on the 

Castle of Otranto, &c. - - _ 102 

CXXII. To Mr . Palg.-ave — What he partic ularly advises 

him to see when abroad - - -104 

CXXIIL To Mr. Beattie —Thanks for a letter received 
from him, and an iuviiation from lord Strath- 
more to Glames .... no 

CXXIV. To Dr. Wharton.-Descriptiou of the old castle 

of Glames, and pait of the Highlands - 111 

CXXV. To Mr Beattie.— Apology for not accepting 
the degree of Doctor, offered him by th« Uni- 
versit} of Aberdeen - - . _ i24 

CXXVI. To Mr. Walpole.— Humorous recommendation 
of warm clothing -French nastine«s and 
atheism censured.— Description of an old pic- 
ture - - - - . - 127 

CXXVII. To Dr. Wharton.-Buffln's Natural History.— 
Memoirs of Peirarch.— Mr. Walpole at Pai'is, 
— Descriutiou of a fine lady ... 130 
CXXVIII. To Dr. Wharton.-Tour into Kent.-New Bath 

Guide.- Aiiotlier volume of Biiftbn . 133 

fiXXIX. To Mr Nicholls.-Ou the affection due to 
a mother.— Description of that j)art of Kent 
from whence the letter was written - . 1S§ 



VOL. lY. 



32 



i>34 



INDEX. 



No. Page 

CXXX. To Mr. Mason — On the death of his wife - 138 
CXXXI To Mr. Beattie -Thanks for a n.an « > script poem. 
-Mr Adam Ftrgusoii s Essa; on Civil S«;ciety. 
— A coc.plimtn? to lord Gray - - 139 

CXXXII. To Mr. Biattie —On th > projected edition of 
our author's poems in England and Scoilajjd. 
— Comniendntion of Mr Beattie's ode on Lord 

Hay's Birth.<lay 142 

CXXXIII. To Mr. How.— After perusing the whole of 
Count Algarotti'c wovks in the Leghorn tdi- 
tjon, and his sentiiiiei.ts concerning them - 144 
CXXXIV. To Mr Beattie.— More concerning the Glasgow 

edition of his poems - - - - 148 

CXXXV. To TVJr Walpole.-Criticism on Mr Walpole's 

Historic Doubts, &c. - - - - 150 

CXXXVI. To Mr. Walpole.— Excuses himself for not 
show ii I g his poems to Mr. Walpole previous 
to their publication. — Speed and Leslie. — 
Boswell's History of Corsica - " IW 

CXXXVII. To Mr. Walpole.— Extracts from sir W. Corn- 
wa'.lis's Essays.— Remarks on Stowe, Speed, 
Guthrie, 8cc. - - - - - 160 

CXXXVIII. To the duke of Grafton.-Thanking him for his 

professorsliip - . - - - 163 

CXXXIX., To Mr. Nicbolls — Account of Mr. Brocket's 
death, and of his being made his successor in 
theiATofessorship - - - - i64 

CXL To Mr. Beitiie.- On the same subject - 165 

CXLI. To Mr. NichuUs. On the death of his nnele, 

govenicr Floyer, and advising him to take or- 
ders - - - - - - 167 

CXLII. To Mr. Nicholls, — Congratulating him upon his 
. situation, and mentioning his own ode on the 
Installation of the new Chancellor - -170 

CXLIII. To Mr. Beattie.— His i-eason for writing that 

ode 174 

CXLIV. To Dr. Wbaiton -A journal of his tour through 
Westmoivland, Cumberland, and a part of 

Yorkshire 176 

CXLV. To Dr. Wharton. — Description of Kirkstall- 

Abbev, and some ether places in "Vorksbire - 216 
CXLVI To Mr. Nicholls,— Of Ncttely-Abbey and South- 
ampton - - . - - - -18 
CXIiVH. To Mt Beattie —On the first part of his Min- 
strel liiid his Essay oi« the Inimutability of 
Truth.-Strictui"e on Mr. D, Hupie - - 221 



INDEX. 23^ 

CXLVIII. To Mr. NichoUs.-Character of Froissard and 

other old French historians. — And of Iso- ^^ 

CXLIX. To^d" Wharton. — Of his tour taken the 
^^^ ^^ Mouniouth, &c. Intention 

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